New Impyria
by Gia Alexander
Summary: New Impyria is now complete. Wilhuff Tarkin returns to lead the Imperial Remnant against the Yuuzhan Vong--and beyond.
1. Of What Might Be

Summary:  
  
The time is twenty-five years after the events of A New Hope. The Imperial Remnant will at last have a new Emperor soon, if all goes well, not by cloning, not by commandeering the body of an innocent child, and not by treacherous imitation, but by the Empire's own legitimate advances in technology. You see, there really was a shuttle crash at the Tallaan Shipyards contemporary with the Battle of Yavin. There was one survivor . . .  
  
Disclaimer/Acknowledgments:  
  
This fan fiction novel is based on the characters and situations created by  
  
Kevin J. Anderson, Greg Bear, Barbara Hambly, George Lucas, James Luceno, Russ Manning, and Timothy Zahn. In the interest of protecting the intellectual property of these authors, this work is intended for publication and circulation in the fan fiction forum only. I do not own all of the characters and situations set forth in this book. No financial gain is sought from the circulation of this material, and no infringement is intended.  
  
I express my gratitude to Anderson, Bear, Hambly, Lucas, Luceno, Manning, and Zahn for creating the framework of this opportunity to share my work with other Star Wars fans, and particularly to Mr. Lucas and Lucasfilm, Ltd. for allowing fan fiction forums to operate outside their copyrights.  
  
I would also like to thank my mother for inspiring me to resume writing Star Wars fan fiction after a dry spell of over a decade. Thanks also to my friend from college, Dave, whose discussions, input, and inspiration helped me to develop some of my original characters.  
  
Author's Note:  
  
"New Impyria" is the centerpiece of the series "An Imperial Family."  
  
This series of short stories, novellas, and this full-length novel chronicles four generations of the Tarkin family, through the waning years of the Old Republic, the rise and fall of the Galactic Empire, and the separation of the Imperial Remnant. The saga centers around the lives of Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin and his wife, Lady Typhani.  
  
If you are tired of seeing the Empire whipped, then this series is for you!  
  
  
  
NEW IMPYRIA  
  
Chapter 1:  
  
Of What Might Be  
  
Thirty-six-year-old Lyscithea Tarkin-Lemelisk enjoyed the good fortune of inheriting her mother's outstanding business sense, as well as a bit of her father's ruthlessness. She had done an impeccable job of managing her family's business, Tarkin Megonite Corporation, a large and prosperous megonite moss mining operation on the planet Phelarion, since she and the rest of her family finally persuaded her mother, Lady Typhani Tarkin, to retire two years ago.  
  
Lyscithea sat rigid and stern with her jaw set at the head of the conference table. Her short-cropped reddish-blonde hair seemed to bristle, and her bright blue eyes seemed to shoot laser bolts of ice at those assembled around her. This meeting had lasted far longer than it should have, and the excuses the leaders of the various management divisions tendered were far too feeble to penetrate her harsh sensibilities. Production was up, yes, but not up where Lyscithea wanted it.  
  
The war had been over for six years, the managers had tried to argue repeatedly, and excessive production in the face of decreased demand for their product, the heat-sensitive and highly explosive megonite moss, could hurt the company's bottom line, especially since Lady Typhani, and late her daughter, refused to do business with the New Republic, despite the Republic's dire need for explosives and a renewable fuel source in the face of a new threat from outside the galaxy. However, upper management knew all too well that the historical fact of the war's end bore veracity only in the political and military arenas, and not around the Tarkin and Lemelisk family dining tables.  
  
Just as Lyscithea was about to wreak one of her famously severe tongue-lashings upon her management team, a soft knock came at the conference room door. Lyscithea had ordered the comms turned off for this meeting. One of the managers rose to open the door after Lyscithea gestured to him with her hand, and she let out a sigh of disbelief and disgust. What underling employee would be so brash and stupid as to interrupt a comms- closed meeting, she seethed, and drew in her breath again to give the unfortunate messenger a public response he or she would remember all the way to the employment bureau.  
  
Her personal secretary, an Oboolean female named Narrashah, stepped meekly inside the door and motioned to Lyscithea with one of her tentacles. Lyscithea let out the hot breath she had drawn, pushed herself stiffly from her chair, and marched over to Narrashah. Together they stepped into the corridor outside the conference room. Narrashah looked concerned. "Mrs. Lemelisk," she began respectfully, with more than a bit of a quiver in her voice, "It's your mother on the comm. She says it's an emergency, and she sounds pretty upset." For a moment, Lyscithea seemed to let her guard down.  
  
"Thank you, Narrashah," she said, "I'll take it in my office."  
  
Lyscithea walked the few paces across the lobby, past the now very carefully shielded and blaster-proof megonite display, to the beautiful, spacious and fully restored office that had been her mother's for so many decades. Lyscithea closed the door behind her, and picked up the comm port from her personal desk, a spectacularly intricate carved writing table of the deepest red wood of the Blood Tree, a gift long ago given to her father by an associate who was a member of the Blood Carver clan. The table had been relegated to the mine offices when the associate proved to be less than her father estimated, but Lyscithea had always liked it.  
  
"Mother," she spoke softly into the comm port, "What is it?" expecting to be told of yet another act of asinine stupidity that the embarrassing disgrace to the entire family, her Rebel-scum cousin Rivoche, had done lately.  
  
"Scythi, we have to go to Bastion right away!" Her mother's voice cracked, and Lyscithea could tell that she had been crying.  
  
"All right, Mother, calm down. What's going on on Bastion, and we who?" Lyscithea asked, surprised at an urgent summons to the Empire's new capital planet. The Empire had selected it as capital and site of the new Imperial Military Training Academy Headquarters after Carida had been destroyed some years earlier by a war renegade who had stolen Imperial technology and used it against its creators, and after Coruscant had been lost to the New Republic.  
  
Lady Typhani took a moment to answer. "Regent Viorska wants to discuss something with us--me, you, your sister, and your Aunt Morgana!" She broke into tears again, but this time Lyscithea realized that they were tears of joy! Her heart swelled, she sucked in her breath with a sharp gasp, and her free hand clapped to her mouth.  
  
"Mother, do you think they--can they--do they think there's a chance now?" Lyscithea asked her mother excitedly.  
  
"They didn't say," Lady Typhani replied, "but what else can it be?"  
  
"You're sure Rivoche is not up to no good again, behind this?" Lyscithea asked and warned, now clenching her fist. "It could be a trap."  
  
"I was assured we'd have the strongest of escorts, perhaps a Destroyer if we want it. Besides, Scythi, I seriously doubt Rivoche could have even the remotest influence with Regent Viorska. Why, he'd kill her on the spot, you know that," her mother said, her voice becoming firm again.  
  
"As would I!" Lyscithea responded vehemently, turning her head into the comm port. She had long vowed that if she ever got the chance, she would kill Rivoche for what she had done to her older sister. On that note . . . "Have you called Lyjéa?" she asked her mother.  
  
"Yes. She'll be flying over from Eriadu as soon as classes let out. Morgana is on her way as well. We'll leave from here as soon as Lyjéa arrives," Lady Typhani explained. Thirty-eight-year-old Lyjéa had declined the helm of her family's company, choosing instead to retain her tenured teaching and research post in technical communications on the faculty of the Imperial University of Eriadu.  
  
"I'm going to head home now, tell Kormath what's going on, and--and get the boys settled in. Any idea how long we'll be?" Lyscithea asked her mother.  
  
"A day or two, perhaps," Lady Typhani speculated.  
  
Lyscithea put down the comm port and sank into the comfortable upholstery of her office chair, a Sienar Design Systems wonder that molded itself perfectly to the body of its occupant. Lyscithea was too hard-boiled to be shocked, but one could say that she sat presently stunned. Could it be, after all these years?  
  
Lyscithea set her briefbag down with one hand as she cast the other around the shoulders of her husband, Kormath Lemelisk, son of Death Star chief engineer Bevel Lemelisk. "Your mom called. She said she'd try to catch you at work," he said after their customary evening kiss.  
  
"Oh, she got me," Lyscithea said, "Mother, Lyjéa, Aunt Morgana, and I have been summoned to Bastion by Regent Viorska."  
  
"Even Morga--" Kormath broke off, taken aback at what it must mean. "Aw, Scythi, that's great! I can't wait--"  
  
She put a finger over his lips as their three rowdy young sons scampered into the room. "I don't want to say anything, especially to the boys. We're not even sure what this is about yet--or if it will be successful even if it is possible."  
  
"Yeah, sure. I understand. I think that's best," Kormath agreed, reaching down to scruff the head of his oldest son, water-blaster wielding eight-year-old Wilhuff Adrian.  
  
"Mom! Mom! I got another star on my math test!" declared six-year-old Bevel Kormath, destined to become a mathematical and engineering--if not political and military--genius after both of his grandfathers, thrusting the paper at his mother. Lyscithea stooped down to praise her middle son, and also to hug three-year-old Taeodor Palpatine as he too came up for some attention.  
  
The adults shooed the boys into the family room to watch holovision, and Kormath followed Lyscithea into their bedroom, where she proceeded to the closet to remove a garment bag. "You're leaving tonight?" Kormath asked.  
  
"Unfortunately," Lyscithea signed. "Would you please call Bharina in here to help me pack some things?"  
  
"Sure," Kormath said as he turned to call for the requested servant. "Don't suppose I could go along?"  
  
Lyscithea dropped her makeup bag on her dressing table and said flatly to his reflection in the mirror, "I don't think so."  
  
"I'm gonna worry. Wait a minute, where the hell is Rivoche?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.  
  
"Rotting in the stomach of a Tatooinian Sarlac, I hope!" Lyscithea declared. "No, Mother doesn't think she's in on this. Besides, Destroyer escort."  
  
"Damn!" Kormath exclaimed.  
  
"Well, with four of us going to the same location . . ."  
  
Kormath nodded in understanding, but Lyscithea's last comment did not make him feel any better. 


	2. Summons to Bastion

Chapter 2:  
  
Summons to Bastion  
  
Two women in their mid-seventies with sharp facial features and stern jaw lines strode into the austere Imperial conference room on the capital world of Bastion. Although both women had long, graying hair and a fair amount of fine facial creases, neither Morgana nor Typhani could, in spirit, be called elderly just quite yet, particularly Lady Tarkin. Her Phelarian bloodline afforded her a much longer than human average life expectancy; in fact, by Phelarian standards, Typhani was just reaching the high side of middle age. Two more women in their mid-to-late thirties followed, their very resemblance bearing the fact of their sisterhood. A seeing-eye droid hovered dutifully at the side of the slightly older sister, who had darker hair and eyes akin to her mother. The droid assisted Lyjéa in finding her seat.  
  
During the height of the New Order, Paleb Viorska, Dr. Paleb Viorska, that is, had been the chief administrator of a mammoth chain of hospitals, medical centers, pharmaceutical developers, and medical droid production sites throughout the galaxy, and also headed up the largest HMO in the Empire, landing the lucrative Imperial government contracts. His superior and useful management and administrative capabilities came to the attention of the Imperial military as well, and so Emperor Palpatine personally placed Viorska in charge of military medical response during the fight against the Rebellion.  
  
Never considering himself a warlord, the rotund Viorska found himself compared to such as he did manage to muster his own faction of supporters following the Battle of Endor. He was much less zealous, less hot-headed, and a better manager than many of his warlord counterparts with whom he vied for control over various segments of the remaining Empire. He had prudently declined an invitation to attend a summit meeting during which his renegade counterparts had been eliminated, not wanting to be even remotely associated with such company. Thus, Viorska found himself in a position of respected leadership as Regent, a high-level advisor, when the New Republic and the Empire agreed to peace six years ago, and the Imperial Remnant Council was formed. In essence, Viorska had been there since the beginning and had seen it all; thus, he too was now quite on in years.  
  
The Imperial Remnant Council now consisted of eight members, the best of the remaining leaders of the various sections of the fragmented Empire. Although the Council was now stable, and had been for over two years, no obvious replacement for their lost Emperor Palpatine had yet been identified. The best hope available had ended years ago when Grand Admiral Thrawn was killed. However, if Viorska and Vice Admiral Gilad Pellaeon, the only two lead Imperials privy to some very secret knowledge, had their way, all that would change over the course of the next few months.  
  
Lady Tarkin drew an audibly shaky breath and began to wring her hands. The last time she had personally seen Paleb Viorska, it was through eyes parched with tears and an anguish so deep and utterly soul-wrenching that she barely remembered the event itself; only the pain and grief lingered. Lyscithea put a calming hand over her mother's as Viorska came into the room, excused the guards, and closed the door behind him. The reflection from the light panels in the walls shone prominently on the bald area in the middle of Viorska's graying head, and his dark blue, bejeweled Regent's robe rustled against his chair as he took his seat. He knew the forthcoming conversation was going to be especially difficult for Lady Tarkin. The last time he had seen her, she lay sleeping, albeit fitfully, from the powerful sedatives he had ordered. Their gazes met, and Lyscithea clutched her mother's hand tightly in reassurance.  
  
"Greetings, my esteemed ladies. It is good to see you all so well," Viorska addressed them. He hesitated, then continued. "I think you have probably figured out why I have asked all of you to come here."  
  
Lyjéa spoke up then. "Do you think it's possible now?"  
  
"Yes, Professor Tarkin, I do," he assured her straight away. Viorska gave them a moment to let the information sink in. "You do understand, however, that the recovery process is likely to be very complicated and difficult, and so we need to discuss and agree upon some of the initial technical details," he advised.  
  
Typhani leaned forward across the table and said to Viorska in a tense yet steel-stern voice, "No matter what, I don't want him cloned, and I don't want him to end up like Vader!"  
  
"Yes, of course," Viorska reassured, extending his hand across the table. "Cloning is absolutely out of the question, rest our beloved Emperor Palpatine, and we don't anticipate the use of any major cybernetics."  
  
"All right, but what exactly do you have now that you didn't have back then? His injuries . . . " Lyjéa asked.  
  
"I'm glad you asked that," Viorska said, seeming to look forward to flaunting his latest medical breakthroughs. "We have developed and tested a new, non-bacta, cell regeneration nanotechnology that repairs the body cell- by-cell at the root of the genetic code. This technology can regenerate damaged organs and tissues, including bone, and can also help reverse the cell death from large radiation doses such as those emitted when the Death S--" He stopped short as Typhani turned her head away and moved as though she would get up and bolt from the room. Lyscithea put an arm around her mother. When Lady Tarkin regained her composure, Viorska continued, careful to speak in more generalized terms. "This technology is essentially the opposite of the biomechanical reducer we applied to the former Rebel Chief of State about fifteen years ago."  
  
"I remember that," Lyjéa acknowledged. "But just because you can now repair all the damage doesn't mean that, well, that he'll--be there--when it's all finished," she cautioned. "Why, then he'd be a vegetable--no better than in the carbonite!"  
  
"That's where a new neurobooster comes in. We believe it can essentially jumpstart the central nervous system," Viorska responded. At that point, he felt some of the wall of cautious skepticism between him and his guests begin to dissipate.  
  
"And these technologies and drugs and such have been tested?" Lyjéa asked pointedly, turning her face even more in the direction of Viorska's voice.  
  
"Yes, Professor, quite thoroughly, in fact. Full lab results are available for your examination, and we have arranged for a tactile readout holoplate terminal for your use. Alternately, we will be glad to have a droid read the material to you," Viorska explained, knowing he would get his most difficult technical objections from the Grand Moff's eldest, tech- head daughter. "It's so unfortunate about the Maw Installation," Viorska thought to himself, "Lyjéa would have been so much at home there."  
  
Lady Typhani's ears rang and her head began to throb as the possibility started to become real to her. She was afraid to speak her next question too loudly. "How long?" she asked, barely above a whisper.  
  
"Well, that's the drawback. As I mentioned, the process will be long and quite involved. After all, there are billions of cells in the body. The first step will be for our best medical team to stabilize him once we bring him out of the carbonite--"  
  
Typhani shot in forcefully. "But you couldn't keep him stable before! You tried for three days! That's why we had to put him in the carbonite in the first place!"  
  
"Mom, I'm sure they have better equipment and procedures now, and that Regent Viorska has planned this thoroughly. Before, everything was so rushed, and you were stuck all the way out on Tallaan, or all places. Now they know what's coming and can prepare for it, and of course we'll insist on the best facility," Lyscithea reassured her mother.  
  
"But what if they can't--if they can't keep him stable again?" Typhani cried.  
  
"Yes, what is the contingency for that?" Lyjéa asked.  
  
Viorska's spirits sank. Now he sensed a split forming among his guests. "If that happens," he began, enunciating his words very slowly and precisely. "If that happens, and I think it is very unlikely that it will, but if it does, we can always have the chamber ready and put him back down."  
  
"Back into the carbonite, you mean?" Lyjéa asked.  
  
"Yes," Viorska answered.  
  
"All right, but then assuming you can get him stable, and keep him there, how long is this neurobiomechanical regeneration process supposed to take?" Morgana asked, reiterating her sister-in-law's concern.  
  
Viorska felt it best to be straightforward with them on this point. "A few weeks."  
  
"I was afraid of that," Lyjéa said, and folded her arms across her chest. "And then what? He walks out of the medcenter and takes command?" she asked, a bit of sarcasm creeping into her voice.  
  
"Well, not immediately," Viorska conceded.  
  
"Uh-huh," Lyjéa muttered.  
  
"If all goes as planned, he'll slowly come around during the initial regeneration process. After that, he'll just need to regain his strength and abilities. Now, considering the length of his encapsulation, and the types of injuries he has, there will probably be some tasks he'll have to learn over; in fact, he'll very likely have to learn to walk again." Typhani's head sank into her hands at that.  
  
"And . . ." Lyjéa continued, "he may have reduced vision."  
  
Viorska hesitated again, all the more uncomfortable that it was Lyjéa who made the point. "Some people emerging from prolonged carbonite encapsulation do, others don't. We do now have treatment protocols in place to minimize this effect, however."  
  
Viorska had noticed that the end goal of all of these plans seemed lost on his four guests. He felt it timely to remind them. "But remember, ladies, if all does go well, his life's greatest dream will be realized. Your husband, your brother, your father--he will be installed as our new Emperor." He then glanced at his chronometer. "I'm afraid I have to call our meeting at this point, but I would like you all to stay overnight to consider the matter, and we will discuss it again in the morning. I have arranged for some secluded quarters to give you some privacy. So if there are no more questions at this point?"  
  
Typhani looked up at him again. "You and the others, you could have proceeded without us," she said.  
  
"Yes, yes we could have. However, considering your husband's status and his service to the Empire, we felt that he deserved the consultation of his immediate family. And, of course, your support will be essential."  
  
Lady Tarkin seemed to settle into a quiet contemplation. She knew how badly her husband had always wanted to succeed Palpatine. In fact, she had ultimately agreed to the carbonite to give him that chance. 


	3. The Longing and the Dread

**Chapter 3:**

**The Longing and the Dread**

"Girls, Morgana, I don't mean to be antisocial, but I think I really need to be alone for a little while right now," Lady Typhani told her companions when they reached the luxurious quarters that Regent Viorska had prepared for them.

"Sure, Mom, go ahead," Lyscithea said supportively.

"I'm going to go take a look at Viorska's data on all this," Lyjéa said skeptically. She turned to leave and depressed the Reverse Course button on the top panel of her guide droid.

Lyscithea and Morgana sat down on the sofa as Typhani retreated into one of the suite's bedrooms and closed the door behind her. A wry smile crept across Morgana's face, and she chuckled that little Tarkin chuckle that indicated someone was in some serious trouble of the family kind. "What?" Lyscithea asked, staring curiously at her aunt. "What could possibly be funny right now? What are you thinking about?"

Morgana looked sideways at her niece, ducking her chin a bit. "Oh, no one in particular, just Retired Admiral You-Know-Who!"

Lyscithea threw her arms in the air, flopped against the back of the sofa, crossed her legs, and kicked off her shoes. "Oh, boy!" she said. "I forgot about Admiral You-Know-Who!"

"Oh, I am quite certain that your mother will have a very lengthy and explicitly detailed _discussion _with your father about Admiral You-Know-Who, just as soon as he's healthy enough to withstand the interrogation!" Morgana assured. "She, um, might even have the doctors remove some things to prevent further infractions!"

"Aunt Morgana!" Lyscithea exclaimed, slapping her aunt playfully on the arm. Then there was silence between them. They both realized that the small talk was not going to take their minds off the situation at hand and the difficult decisions to be made.

In one of the suite's plush sleeping chambers, Lady Tarkin took off her shoes, loosened her belt, and eased back into the overstuffed lounge chair just inside the bedroom door. She put her head back, and began to drift back in her mind, back twenty-five years, almost to the day . . . 

* * * 

That fateful morning, she had been behind closed doors doing performance evaluations when she heard a commotion outside her office. "What's going on out here?" she snapped as she jerked the office door open.

Instant silence.

Someone finally spoke up. "Oh, Lady Tarkin! There's been a terrible explosion!"

"What?!" she yelped as she ran over to the wall-sized map of her mining areas, "Which sector? Why didnt you get me sooner? Have the emergency crews been called in? Has the affected area been sealed?"

More silence. 

Again, a meek voice from within the group of office workers, "No, ma'am, not the mine. It's the Death Star! The Rebels, they--they--"

"Again? Already? They must have found the Rebel Base!" Typhani chirped excitedly as she darted into her executive conference room and switched on the holovision. No one dared follow her. None of the mine employees had ever seen her emote anything other than anger or perhaps a little sarcasm, and so they knew not what to expect as they crowded into the conference room doorway. Lady Tarkin's back was to them, and for a long moment she just stood rigid, staring into the news hologram that was reporting that the Rebel Alliance had just completely destroyed the Death Star during a battle in the Yavin System, presumably killing everyone on board. 

At first, only a few small but agonized squeaks rose from deep within her throat. Then it came--the horrible, heart-wrenching scream of a newly-made widow crying out after her husband into eternity.

"Adrian!"

She sank to the floor in uncontrollable half-sobs, half-screams. A couple of her more familiar staff members made some tentative steps toward her. One lady stooped down and put a hand on Typhani's shoulder just as Imperial security troops rushed into the mine offices. They burst into the conference room, asking the employees to step aside, telling them, "We need to get her home."

Typhani was utterly shocked and inconsolable. The guards could not get her to stand up, and eventually had to carry her from the building. "She'll be all right," her personal bodyguard, Nardo, assured the staff on the way out. 

As they approached the main house, Nardo tried to get Typhani to calm down. Just getting her to breathe was a start. "Lady Tarkin, please listen to me! You've got to get hold of yourself! Your girls are going to need you!" That had some effect. They were able to get her on her feet, and she walked into the house on her own.

Imperial security forces swarmed all over the house and the grounds. Just as she entered the main foyer, a higher-ranking officer approached them and addressed Typhani directly. She swallowed hard, expecting confirmation of her worst nightmare. "Lady Tarkin, we have spotted a handful of small craft, though badly damaged, coming out of the Yavin System. An Imperial command shuttle just crash-landed at the Tallaan Shipyards. From its markings, we think there's a possibility--"

She broke away at that and bolted up the stairs. She looked back over her shoulder at the officers from the top of the central marble staircase. "Where are my daughters? Have they been told anything?" she demanded.

Raycellna, a female Toydarian who was her most beloved and loyal housekeeper, gently took her arm. "They're in the upstairs reception room. I herded them away from the holovision. We haven't told them anything, but I think they know."

Typhani finally regained her composure as she gripped the doorhandle. "Mom!" eleven-year-old Lyscithea cried, and ran into her mother's arms.

"What's happening?" thirteen-year-old Lyjéa demanded. "Someone please tell me what's going on!" Lyjéa reached forward in her mother's direction as her seeing-eye droid led the way, its lead strap wrapped securely around her small wrist.

Typhani sat down between her daughters and put an arm around each of them. "There's been a problem on the new battle station, girls, and there was a big explosion. Now I have to go to Tallaan to meet your father, so I want you to behave and listen to Raycellna, all right?" 

"Is Dad all right?" Lyscithea demanded.

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out." 

Then Raycellna called Typhani to the comm, and stood with a hand on her shoulder, listening to her side of the conversation. "We don't know anything for sure yet, Rivoche," Typhani explained to her rather upset nineteen-year-old niece. "No, no, stay on campus! Stay in your dorm room, and make sure your security detail stays close. No, don't try to get back to Eriadu right now. It's not safe to travel. We'll let you know as soon as we have something definitive."

Safe or not, Typhani quickly set out for Tallaan. The trip itself now a blur in her memory, the one detail that still remained was that it seemed far, far too long. During the flight, other harsh realizations had come to her mind. In addition to her husband, her first cousin--who had been more of a brother to her than a cousin--and several friends had also been involved with Project Death Star. And then the horror that awaited her when she reached the shipyards . . . She saw the utterly obliterated wreckage herself when her own shuttle put down. "_Even if he was in there . . . _" she thought as a well-formed squadron of Imperial stormtroopers surrounded her and escorted her from the landing pad. The regular duty officers would not tell her anything; they just hustled her into an overland transport, and didn't tell her where they were taking her. Starchy Imperial secrecy hung in the air on Tallaan that night. Yet her spirits lifted immensely when the military transport vehicle came to a stop and she was allowed to get out, and she realized that she had been taken to a large medcenter. But painful caution followed her elation--medcenter have morgues.

Strangely, there was very little commotion inside, odd for a medcenter that had just taken the casualties of a crashed Imperial command shuttle. At that realization, the dread started to swell inside of her again. What if no one had survived to be treated? Finally, she at last saw a friendly, familiar face. "Kendal!" 

Admiral Kendal Ozzel had stepped into the corridor from a small waiting room. "Please come on in here with me," he said gently but respectfully, placing a guiding hand on Typhani's right shoulder. He closed the door behind them.

Typhani was almost breathless. "Is--" she began her question. He cut in to save her the agony.

"Yes, Typhani. At last word, he was hanging on. That was about thirty minutes ago."

"Where! I have to go to him!" she cried, reaching for the door.

He grabbed her by the shoulders. "No, no, not right now. You can't, not yet," he insisted, guiding her over to a chair. With his firm pressure on her shoulders, she finally sat down. 

She stared at Admiral Ozzel wide-eyed for a few seconds, her mouth open and dry. The words would not come easily, but finally they did, "How . . .bad?"

Ozzel averted his gaze into his lap. "I have to be honest with you. It's not good. We've got Chief Medical Officer Viorska and some of his best on the way, but . . . Since hes allergic to the bacta, theres really not much they can do," he said as he shook his head.

Typhani forced herself to her feet again. "Where is he? You don't understand, Kendal, we have this--this--I don't know--some uncanny ability to heal each other! I have to--"

He took her by the wrist and gently pulled her back down into the chair. "Not this, Typhani. A cold or the flu, maybe, but not this," he said softly, yet so painfully matter-of-fact. Ozzel reached into his tunic pocket then, and withdrew several small metallic objects. "Here," he said, taking her hand and placing into it her husband's insignias, the four small cylindrical clips and the larger emblem of a Grand Moff--the Empire's very first Grand Moff--a gleaming arrangement of six blue rectangles above three red and three gold. But now, two deep and jagged gouges ran through the emblem, cutting deep into the enamel. Typhani very delicately ran her trembling fingertips over them. At that, she slumped over in the chair in full, hard sobs. "What happened?" she cried.

"We don't know for sure yet," Ozzel began, "but we think they--the Rebels--torpedoed a thermal exhaust port that set off a chain reaction in the main reactor. We're still debriefing; there have been three other ships put down, but the people left alive on them are still pretty rattled.

"Kendal, was there anyone else on this shuttle who can talk to me, tell me what happened?" Typhani asked hopefully.

Ozzel shook his head. 

"So Adrian was the only one alive on that shuttle? Was he flying it? Did he get hurt on the station or in the shuttle?"

"Initially, on the station, we know that much for sure. No, he wasn't flying the shuttle. It took a lot of damage coming out of the station, and the cabin lost its atmosphere inflight, probably due to a hull crack. Someone had set autocourse for Tallaan, but everyone else was dead before that shuttle ever hit the ground. It would have come down smooth except the nav computer fried in the middle of the landing sequence and the landing gear apparently got sheared off as they came out of what was left of the Death Star."

"But then how--how did--" Typhani began, but couldn't finish.

"Someone had already applied several emergency medpacks, and he was wrapped in a thermal blanket, strapped in, and on oxygen. That's how we know he first became injured on the Death Star itself, but of course the seats broke loose on impact, and he was thrown into the front canopy. The overhead instrument bank came down and--"

"No more!" Typhani screamed, her hands going to her ears. In her own anguish, she had momentarily forgotten the others. "Kendal,." she asked, "Do you know who else was on that shuttle?"

Ozzel let out a sigh of grief at that point. "Yeah," he said. "The flight crew, Commander Romodi, General Tagge, Charlie Bast . . . And, at last report, there was one more body. They can't get it out."

"Oh, no!" Typhani cried at the loss of so many close friends and associates--their wives, friends of hers, they would all be widows now. 

"Charlie was hurt pretty bad, too. From the condition of his body, we think he died before the cabin depressurized. He didnt suffocate like the others," Ozzel added. Typhani thought of Charlie, her husband's tactical aide and personal bodyguard, who had also pulled a four-year-old Lyjéa from the deep end of the swimming pool at their compound on Eriadu after she had left her guide droid behind and stumbled into it. But still one name was missing.

"Have you heard from Raolf?" she asked with trepidation concerning her cousin.

"No," Ozzel said quietly. For the moment, he withheld the information that the remaining body in the shuttle was an officer, and that Typhani's cousin, Admiral Raolf Motti, was as yet unaccounted for.

"Kendal, where's Lord Vader?" she asked.

"We don't know," he said matter-of-fact. He poured Typhani a glass of ice water from the pitcher on the table, and she downed it in huge gulps. A soft knock came at the door then, and Typhani jumped, dropping the glass and spilling the remaining water down the front of her ivory business suit. A nurse in purple scrubs with soft brown eyes poked her head in the door.

"Lady Tarkin, can we get you anything? Would you like to lie down?" the nurse asked gently.

"I would like to see my husband!" Typhani demanded. 

The nurse stepped fully into the room then, and sat down to the other side of Typhani. "I know," she said, " but he's still in surgery. We'll come get you as soon as possible."

"You really should lie down," Admiral Ozzel advised her. 

Typhani suddenly acknowledged her body's exhaustion. She simply nodded in compliance. "Come this way," the nurse said, and led her to another room down the hall. 

Typhani lay down in her clothes on the cool, crisp, sterile white sheets, but did not entirely sleep, starting at the sound of any footsteps approaching the door. "Darth's fighter has a hyperdrive," she reminded herself. "And surely, if there was a battle, Raolf was on one of the Destroyers." For the next several hours, she drifted in and out of a half-delirium, half-sleep, then she at last heard the familiar rhythmic breath sounds and heavy footfalls that would reassure her. A low light came on automatically as he slipped into her room.

"Oh, Darth!" she cried, rising to embrace him. She buried her face in the folds of his cape. "We have to catch the Rebel scum that's done this!"

"And we will," he assured her. An Imperial cruiser had picked him up, and he came straight to Tallaan when he heard about the command shuttle. In perhaps his first act of tenderness since turning to the Dark Side, Vader pulled his cape around Typhani and held her close. 

"Darth, they won't let me see him!" she cried.

"We can go now," he told her, and led her out of the room. "Chief Medical Officer Viorska and his team will be arriving within the hour," he reassured her.

There actually wasn't much that could be seen--a devastated, almost lifeless figure, unrecognizable, encased in bandages, and surrounded by so many medical droids and other machines that Typhani could not even get close to him. She began to tremble, badly, and her knees weakened. Her hands went to her face to cover her eyes. "No!" she cried, and started to sink to the floor all over again. Another nurse, this one in a sterile white uniform, quickly threw an arm around her and pulled her stumbling from the room.

"Lady Tarkin, I know you're upset, but if you can't stay calm, then you can't be in there. He may be able to hear you," the nurse admonished her. Typhani looked to Vader for confirmation. He nodded at her and held out his hand. "Come," he said gently, "We'll try this again later." Then to the nurse, "Inform me at once when Viorska's team arrives."

"Yes, Lord Vader," she responded promptly.

Vader had waited to deliver more bad news until after Typhani had been able to see her husband and be assured that he was alive. Her cousin was not so fortunate. Vader closed the door behind them and sat down on the edge of the bed with her. By his actions, she could tell that something else was terribly wrong. He spoke in an uncharacteristically calm, low voice. "They've extracted the final casualty from the shuttle, Typhani. It's Raolf. He didn't make it."

She flinched hard as every muscle and tendon in her body railed against the news. Her stomach seemed to turn in on itself, and her head felt as if it had been struck a terrible blow. "No!" she wailed, reaching out for Vader. "Oh, no, not Raolf! Not him!" Vader held her and allowed her to grieve openly, knowing too well that more tragedy would likely soon follow. 

Having exhausted herself, Typhani finally lay back down while Vader went upstairs to meet with Viorska. She painfully recalled the events Vader later relayed to her.

The first thing that Vader said he noticed was that the room was empty, and then Viorska's explanation. "We've had to rush him back to surgery. We can't keep him stable, and without being able to use bacta, our hands are virtually tied. We get one internal system stable, and then another shuts down. We're dealing with major crush damage, massive internal injuries caused by the shuttle impact, and severe head trauma. This facility is not equipped--but then I doubt that any would be--"

Vader cut him off. "What do you need?" he asked.

"Lord Vader, to he perfectly honest with you, sir, we are either going to need a coffin--or a carbonite chamber."

"I understand," Vader told Viorska. Then under his breath to himself, "Typhani is going to be _very_ difficult." 

Vader took her back up to see her husband again a couple of hours later. Now past the initial shock, Typhani managed to hold herself together. She had always been so afraid of something like this happening. There had been so many close calls before, so many other battles, assassination attempts, narrow escapes in lifepods, and now this. The medcenter staff had rearranged things such that she could finally get in close to him, only to face the full realization of how utterly devastated he was. And yet, he was still there, for the moment. She leaned close and grasped his hand as she spoke softly to him. "Don't leave us, Adrian. The girls and I, we love you and we need you! You've got to hang on . . ." 

After two more close calls, one that afternoon and one later that night in which they nearly lost their precarious hold on the Regional Governor, Vader secretly called for the carbonite chamber. Many on the hospital staff suspected that Vader was performing some kind of Sith magic to keep Tarkin alive. Of course he was, but he couldn't do it forever, and Vader knew all too well the long-term degenerative effects of such an approach. Emperor Palpatine had already begun to suffer. No one knew it at the time, but Palpatine was already using his clones, and so Vader did not even bother to suggest cloning the Grand Moff from some of his healthy tissue. Not being Force-sensitive, Tarkin could not transport his spirit to a clone anyway, and Vader was unsure of his ability to "snare" him and carry out the transfer himself. So for the possible future good of the Empire, he ordered that a failsafe carbonite chamber be tested on a Rebel prisoner and then delivered secretly to Tallaan at once. Now to convince Typhani.

A fate worse than death. That was her immediate thought. "Typhani, other than bacta, which we can't use, we don't have the technology right now to reverse the magnitude of injuries he's sustained, but sometime in the future, we might. It may only be for a short while, until we can transport him to a more advanced facility." Vader knew that a short-term encapsulation wasn't likely, but he also knew that as long as there was a chance to preserve the technical and tactical expertise Tarkin possessed, Palpatine would demand the carbonite, whether Typhani liked it or not. However, everyone's life, including Vader's, would be much easier if she would agree to it voluntarily.

"I don't know," she cried, shredding a damp, wadded facial tissue in her hands. "I--I have to wait for Morgana."

When Tarkin's sister Morgana finally arrived, she was adamant. "I already buried one of my brothers," she said, "and as long as there's the slightest chance, I'm not ready to bury the other one."

Typhani leaned close to her sister-in-law. "Morgana, Adrian told me that they sometimes use carbonite encapsulation to torture Rebels. He said they don't like it because they're aware of everything--aware that they're trapped."

Viorska had walked in behind them. "Yes, Lady Tarkin, that is true, but only when the subject is encapsulated while fully conscious. With a general anesthetic, your husband will be aware of nothing during his encapsulation, no sensory perception, no dreams, nothing. It's essentially suspended animation."

Typhani dabbed at her red, puffy eyes with another shredded tissue. "Morgana, I just don't know if we're doing the right thing or not? What do you think he'd want us to do?" she asked her sister-in-law.

Morgana looked around, specifically to make sure Vader was not afoot nearby. She leaned close to Typhani and whispered her answer in a native Eriaduan dialect such that Viorska could not understand her. "I think we both know what he wants more than anything else in the universe, and he certainly can't accomplish that fertilizing the family cemetery with Gideon!" Typhani had to agree that her husband would want the chance to succeed Palpatine, or perhaps Vader, at some point in the future.

Viorska interceded, "Ladies, I truly understand how difficult this is for you, but we have to move quickly. His condition is deteriorating, and there isn't much time."

"All right then," Typhani whispered, nodding to Viorska.

Viorska quickly arranged for all of them to transfer to the waiting Imperial Star Destroyer _Avenger,_ where a new carbonite chamber had been concealed, per Vader's orders, in a critical care cell in the ships sick bay. The ruse would be a transfer to the primary Imperial military medical facility on Coruscant. 

On Tallaan, medcenter staff put up a mild resistance to Viorska about the transfer, arguing that Governor Tarkin would not likely survive it, but did not press beyond Viorska's insistence because they felt that only a matter of hours remained anyway, and they knew that he certainly would not survive at their facility.

Aboard the _Avenger_, Lady Tarkin cried out openly as she watched Viorska activate the controls to the carbonite chamber. Tears welled up in Morgana's eyes as well as she watched her only remaining sibling slowly being lowered into the carbonite on the very brink of death. "Damn this war! Damn the Rebels!" she cried as she turned and rushed out of the room. She stood with her back against the wall opposite the door. "Why?" she asked, looking toward the ceiling. The two guards flanking the door eyed her intensely, unaware of the procedure taking place inside. She met their gazes, moistened her lips, and swallowed hard. "He's gone," she told them, and turned to walk away. No one else could know the truth.

As wisps of vapor rose from the carbonite chamber, Typhani suddenly ran toward it. Vader quickly reached around her from behind, catching her by both wrists, fearing she was about to throw herself over the rim and into the chamber. When all of the droids and machines had been pulled away, she and Morgana had been given a brief moment with him, but for Typhani, it was not enough, would never be enough. Only eternity would do. She choked on her own sobs and screams as Vader led her from the room. If any doubt was left in onlookers' minds after Morgana's exit, Lady Tarkin's certainly put them to rest.

Vader led Typhani to another nearby room in the _Avenger's_ sick bay. She sank face down on the cot, half burying her face in the pillow, still hysterical, pounding the mattress with her fists. She felt a small but painful prick on the side of her neck as a medic droid hovered over her. Within moments, her shrieks subsided into soft sighs as her eyelids fluttered closed over her tears.

The first few weeks after the destruction of the first Death Star had been tense and hectic ones for Typhani, and she recalled spending most of them in a daze, attending memorial service after memorial service, including one for her cousin and three for her husband. To hide the truth, Palpatine issued a formal disclosure stating that Grand Moff Wilhuff Adrian Tarkin of Imperial Oversector Outer had been a victim of a shuttle accident at the Tallaan Shipyards while in transit to take command of the Death Star prior to the Battle of Yavin. This, of course, also served to "sugar-coat" the entire Death Star incident, and to protect the Tarkin family from any suggestions of indiscretion or a lapse of judgment on the part of the Grand Moff. The Empire explained away the other three ships as having been in the area to rendezvous with the battle station, and that they had been damaged by the explosion. As such, the Rebels took the communiqué as pure propaganda, certain that they had blown Tarkin to atoms above the Fourth Moon of Yavin. Those who knew otherwise were extremely few: Typhani, Morgana, Viorska, Vader, Palpatine, and eventually Lyjéa and Lyscithea, and then Lyscitheas husband. Typhani had insisted on telling her daughters the truth, but in light of their ages, she had waited several months so that their emotions would appear genuine during all of the memorials. 

The girls had also been instrumental in designing a memorial for their father to be erected on their estate on Phelarion, a towering solid black marble obelisk. As far as they knew, their father's body lay inside his coffin in a spacious stone chamber beneath the obelisk. Typhani thought back again to the night about eight months after the explosion when she took her daughters out to the memorial, unlocked the door at its base with the only key, and led them, both trembling with fear, down the narrow stone steps. She did not speak to them right away. She knew she would have to show them or they would never believe her. She simply walked over to the casket, gripped the lid with both hands, and heaved up.

"Mom!" Lyscithea gasped. Then her mouth dropped open in silence and disbelief.

"What! What!" Lyjéa demanded.

"Come here, Lyjéa, this way," Typhani directed her. She took her oldest daughter's hands and placed them into the coffin. Lyjéa ran her hands over the interior.

"It's empty!" she exclaimed.

Lyscithea was wise twelve-year-old after all she'd been through, and she scowled at her mother, hands on her hips. "_Where_, not the Rebel Base, but my father?!" she demanded. 

"In a carbonite containment cylinder safely hidden near Uncle Darth's house on Vjun," Typhani revealed. She sat down with her daughters on the low marble bench opposite the empty casket and explained everything to them. They, like her, had never abandoned hope, but they, being young and resilient, had assimilated the realization well as they grew up.

But for Typhani, the forlorn longing had never left her. She spent a couple of years in grief counseling for anger management and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder after she had nearly worked her employees to death in an attempt to harvest and process enough megonite moss to annihilate the entire Rebel Alliance, then played right into their hands when, in her rage, she unwittingly conscripted a Rebel woman, whose ship Vader had shot down and who had been posing as a common miner, to scrub every toilet, fixture, and floor in her multi-story mansion with a sponge--not a brush, not a mop--a sponge, no gloves--in preparation for a high-level Imperial conference she was about to host. In addition to her assigned chores, the Rebel slipped into Typhani's office, accessed her subspace transponder, and used it to make some very well-placed calls to smugglers to come route her, two co-conspirators--and a sizable load of megonite--straight back to the Rebel Alliance. The escapade resulted in two major detonations, one of which had nearly demolished the mine offices when Nardo shot at the Rebel, hitting the megonite display, which was in Typhani's office at the time, instead. He died instantly in the line of duty. 

Vader had picked up the transmissions, and assumed the worst of Typhani. He arrived just prior to the diplomatic banquet, and together they chased the Rebel all over the grounds. Vader immediately recognized her. As it turned out, this common miner turned house maid who called herself "Lerna" was actually none other than Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan, one of the Rebellion's top leaders! The Rebel and her cohorts finally ended up trapped on the landing pad on top of the main production building. Vader warned Typhani that she would be considered responsible if the renegades escaped, which they promptly did, when a smuggler's freighter put down on the landing pad and the three fugitives scrambled aboard. Vader and General Shea Hublin immediately set out after them, but not before Vader told Typhani to get back to her estate and stay there until he returned.

Typhani feared at that point that she would lose her own life, if not the rest of her family as well. She made it back to the mine offices just as the escaping freighter began to strafe the entire complex with laser fire. Locating a mobile transmitter, she had frantically gotten through to Bharina, telling her, "Go into my bedroom--I know I've never allowed you in there, but go--there's a key inside a small box covered with blue and silver shells on my night table. Get the key, take the girls, and get beneath the obelisk--Scythi knows how to open it. Stay down there until I come for you or--or until it gets quiet!" Then she scrambled to find a way out of the burning office building, finally breaking a window and pulling herself to safety. She then ran hard across the plaza, unprotected, nearly falling several times as she tried to make her way in her high-heeled evening shoes, her bejeweled, royal blue, crushed velvet ball gown now torn and stained, her face and hands covered with soot, and her hair half down.

Vader had been furious with her. When he returned to confront her about the incident, he accused her of allowing megonite to be smuggled to the Rebel Alliance on the black market, and blamed her for the Rebels escape. For a brief moment, she feared he might hurt her--or worse. And well he may have, if the girls had not overheard and come running into the room.

"You need to leave the war to the warriors, Typhani," he had admonished her, after asking the girls to excuse them, assuring them that he would not harm their mother. "I know you're still upset about Adrian--"

She cut him off, "Darth, I will _always_ be upset about Adrian, and those Rebels are still out there!"

"That Rebel you had in this house is one of the most dangerous, Typhani, and from the outside it certainly looked as though she was your _guest_, not your servant. You and your girls were in grave danger, Typhani!"

"I told you, Darth, I had no idea who she was or where she'd come from! I thought she'd come in through the labor pool like the others!" Typhani defended herself.

"But you didn't bother to pull her background information, did you? And so in the process you gave the Rebels _exactly _what they wanted and provided a means for their escape," he scolded.

"Everything was in such a rush--for the Conclave! I didn't have time! She appeared to be nothing more than a normal-looking convict girl to me! How could I have possibly known! Besides, I told you months ago I was afraid the Rebels might come after me and the girls! If you shot her ship down, why didn't you follow through to make sure there were no escape pods!" 

"Why did you breach your own procedures, Typhani? If you were that concerned . . . And then had you found out? Well, as I recall, you're rather handy with a blaster yourself," Vader pointed out, but had to admit to himself that he should have scanned for pods, though he doubted they would have detected the gossamer glider the Rebel had used in her escape.

Typhani was disgusted with herself. "You're right, you're right," she conceded, thinking about how it would have taken only a few minutes to pull "Lerna's" rap sheet off of the penal colony computer system. There would have been no "Lerna," of course, and Typhani could have ended the problem--and possibly the Rebellion--right then and there with her own hand. 

In a move that both surprised and touched her, several of the mine harvesters and two of the foremen had come forward to Vader and Hublin and explained the conspiracy of two of their co-workers to escape with a load of stolen megonite, and confirmed that the arrival of the Rebel woman had been a complete coincidence. None of them, they said, ever suspected that she was a Rebel of rank. To protect their jobs, if not their lives, they had somehow managed to convince the Imperial high commanders that Typhani knew of none of it. She was simply guilty of letting her guard down a bit too much amidst all the preparations for the convention--and of overproduction. 

Vader thought it wise to deal with the latter issue as well. "You have a valuable resource here, Typhani, and you're a good businesswoman. That is what the Empire needs from you. Don't destroy yourself or your resources here, and don't dabble with Rebels. Leave that to me." 

And so that is what she had done with the rest of her working life, as she had done before. She went to the mine offices every working day, clad in smart designer business suits, making demands and giving commands with stern and precise resolve, making her employees fear what she might do if they failed to comply. Indeed, she had made memorable examples out of a few slackers, ruthlessly incorporating the Tarkin Doctrine into her management style. 

The business of the mine and other Imperial pursuits filled her days, but that persistent longing filled her nights. For a quarter century, she had fantasized about this day, and about that fateful yet fantastic evening at some undetermined point in the future when she and her husband would once again enjoy their wafers and tea in the sitting room off their master bedroom (a strict evening ritual that had been), and then draw close to each other, sinking into the thick, warm down of their overstuffed bed that sequestered them from the cold, damp Phelarian nights. 

Now it could be, or soon, she thought, but she dared not let herself completely believe it. Something could go terribly wrong, or only partially right, and there were so many other things to consider, so much that had happened, so much that had changed. Indeed, it was a far different galaxy from the one that had existed when the carbonite vapors had torn her husband from her side.

* * *

Morgana knocked softly on the door. "Typhani, are you all right? Lyjéa is back, and they've just brought us some dinner." For a moment, Typhani thought she perceived the faint taste of deliciously sweet Eriaduan crème wafers.

Lyjéa reported her findings as the four of them ate dinner. "Of course, all the data and specs look good on paper, it's just a matter of how well he responds. That's the variable."

"But Lyjéa, don't you think his ability to bounce back from this is compromised now that he's so much older? Have they considered that?" Lyscithea asked.

"Older?" Lyjéa queried.

"Lyjéa, Dad's eighty-one years old now," her sister reminded her.

"But he's been suspended in the carbonite," Lyjéa replied, groping around her plate for her askew roll.

"So when they bring him out, will he be eighty-one or fifty-six?" Lyscithea rephrased her question.

"Fifty-six," Lyjéa said matter-of-fact. All eyes went to Typhani. Another worry to consider. Typhani put down her fork. She dropped her hands into her lap and stared down at them.

"Mom, how do you feel about that?" Lyscithea asked.

Typhani looked up, and in what almost appeared to be good spirits said, "Well, let's just say I'm glad I'm Phelarian." She took a sip from her glass, then added, "I do suppose I'll need to dye all this hair back black, and perhaps have a little nip-and-tuck surgery myself." Everyone chuckled at that.

Lyscithea appeared to be doing some math on her fingers. "_Blast it_!" she thought. "_Dad and Daala are almost the same age now!"_

"Lyjéa, did you notice any additional risk factors," Typhani asked.

"Well, we already established inability to stabilize, and the stuff could simply not work. Or, one could work and the other not work. If the cell regenerator works and the neurobooster doesn't, who knows. He could be no better off than he is right now, as I said earlier," she reminded them.

"But he wasn't brain-dead, right Mom?" Lyscithea asked.

"No. They were getting some impulses, but he'd gone headlong into the front canopy of that shuttle," Typhani explained.

Lyjéa continued, "Then he could end up with any level of ability along a very large sliding scale. On the other hand, if the neurobooster works and the cell regenerator doesn't, then we have that mind of his back in a body wracked with health problems that won't allow him to fulfill his ambitions after all. I don't know whether he'd want to exist like that, or that we would want him to."

"Oh, I don't know," Lyscithea ventured.

"And, just like anyone who's ill, he could get an infection, pneumonia, any number of things," Lyjéa continued.

"But what if this ordeal has, I don't know, changed his personality or something?" Typhani speculated.

"We won't know that until he comes around, and even then, such changes could show up weeks or months later," Lyjéa explained.

Typhani put down her napkin and sat back in her chair. "You know, I have longed for this day for twenty-five years, but I have dreaded it as well," she said, her throat growing tight.

"What, Mom?" Lyscithea asked.

"All the changes since . . . I mean, so much of what he cared about is gone--the station, the lab, Carida, the old Academy, your Uncle Darth, Raolf, Emperor Palpatine, and we're sharing the galaxy with the Rebel-scum New Republic! I just--I'm afraid of bringing him out into a universe that no longer holds any meaning for him."

"True, but we also have to think about what is still here for him, like us, Nolan, Raine and Valdemar, Uncle Bevel, Raith, Rodin, Gilad, so many familiar places like Villa Galaxia, our lofts on Eriadu, Seswenna Hall, our house, the lake house, his study--just like the morning he left it," Lyjéa offered.

"Mom," Lyscithea said to get her mother's attention. She leaned over the table toward her mother and whispered, "Grandkids!"

"Oh, Scythi, you are right there," Typhani said with a soft smile.

"You know," Lyjéa said, "I think they're going to try this with us or without us, and for his sake, I think it better be with us. We'll have to be the ones to help him--to put up with him--while he deals with all those changes Mom's worried about."

"I'm trying to think of who's still alive," Lyscithea said. "Mom, can you remember anybody who would know everything, or who would have the most information, you know, before the station, the lab, after the station. all the warlords fighting with each other, the New Republic, Getelles and the mess in the Meridian Sector, Disra and his antics, Ardus, Ravic, Bel Iblis' stunts right before the peace accord? What was the last thing Dad was working on? Wasn't it the cruisers with the gravity wells?"

"Yes, but the approach he was exploring is totally outmoded now and theyre using something else," Typhani replied. "It's that sort of thing that troubles me."

"What about Gilad? He's been through it all," Morgana suggested.

"Of course he'll be invaluable, but he knew nothing about the work at the Installation," Typhani said.

"He's going to take the lab the hardest," Lyscithea said, looking down at her plate.

"Even over Rebel scum crawling all over Coruscant now?" Morgana asked.

"Oh, yes," Typhani said.

"Mom, how come we never knew about the lab?" Lyscithea asked. "Miss Priss Admiral You-Know-Who I can understand, but why not the lab itself?"

"Your father's mind worked in very complex ways, Scythi." Typhani reminded her daughter. She would take the night to make another painful and difficult decision.

Typhani lay awake that night, dwelling not upon the possible long-awaited reunion with her soul mate, but on another, on one who had endured the worst cruelty, the most heinous and deceitful exploitation she and her husband could possibly inflict upon another living being, one who had suffered terribly for it, to the point of being utterly broken, and who didn't even know how grievously she'd been harmed--or why. And yet now Typhani needed that someone's help. She would have to face her nemesis--and one of her own orchestrations of atrocity--to help her husband, perhaps only to lose him again . . . The morning came too soon.

"We would like to get started in about ten days," Regent Viorska told the Tarkin women the following morning. "We'll have an elite security squadron retrieve the cylinder from Vjun. Will that allow you sufficient time to prepare? You'll need to plan for an initial stay of several weeks, most likely, before he'll be well enough for transport to Phelarion." Typhani and Morgana nodded. Between them, they had already discussed working out a schedule, but everyone knew that Typhani would never leave her husband's side. 

Viorska continued, "The veil of secrecy has been kept well shut over this matter now for better than two decades. However, is there anyone else, any other family members or other associates, whom you feel could be of help to us?"

Typhani took a deep breath. "Yes, Paleb, I . . . because of the scope of events which have transpired, I think it would be wise if Retired Admiral Daala were involved with us as well, and I would prefer to speak with her about this myself."

Viorska raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"_Mmmmother!_" Lyscithea exclaimed, leaning sharply toward her mother with her hands on her hips.

Typhani put her hand up to silence her daughter. "Lyscithea, there are things you don't know. There are _lots _of things Daala most likely does not know. And . . . there are some things I don't know."

"But--" Lyscithea continued to protest.

Typhani cut her off, standing firm. "She, like everyone else, will find out soon enough, and, for reasons I will discuss with you later, I think it is in your father's best interest that she be here." 

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	4. Of Allies and Adversaries

**Chapter 4:**

**Of Allies and Adversaries**

Typhani and Daala had never met and never communicated with each other, for obvious reasons. Both suffered cruel humiliation when the truth came out, leaked by one of Daala's officers who had been disgruntled over his long stay in the Maw and his ordeal of failed battles in the year that followed. The tabloids had a veritable field day with the scandal, and, ironically, the Imperial ones were even more savage than those from the New Republic.

Typhani had not advised Daala that she was coming, having arranged the meeting under an assumed name and purpose through a convoluted chain of contacts. She as of yet didn't know exactly what she was going to say or how she was going to say it. She arrived on Pedducis Chorios early in the afternoon, and proceeded overland to Daala's outpost. The place struck Typhani as extremely drab, somewhat dirty, and altogether lacking in style, but she had not come to be a critic. The compound lay close to the ground, its architecture manifesting low, horizontal lines, built of slabs of gray slate and native amber-colored stone with ample windows made of seamless smoke-tinted glass that provided sweeping views of the surrounding desert-like terrain and breathtaking distant mountains. The walkways were covered with neat squares of terra-cotta colored stone tiles. Narrow breezeways connected the main house with some smaller out-buildings, one of which Daala used as a small conference center for her consultation work and colony meetings. 

When the conference room door slid aside and Daala realized the true identity of her visitor, she froze and her face grew ashen. She had already had one altercation with her current significant other that morning, and she wasn't particularly in the mood for further provocation. She had dreaded this confrontation for nearly fifteen years now, and had thought and thought again several times of initiating it herself just to get it over. In fact, she had once considered taking her colony of New Order supporters to the Imperial stronghold of Phelarion, but decided against the close proximity to someone she perceived as her nemesis.

Daala stood trim in her olive green pantsuit and black, high-heeled boots, though at last not quite as trim in the days of her more destructive exploits. Her dark, coppery hair still hung long, though it was now beginning to streak with gray. Typhani looked as if she could have been on any of her usual professional trips in her dove-gray short-skirted business suit with its prominent silver shell buttons and gray and white studio pumps. For a long moment, the two women took stock of each other. Daala wondered if Typhani was armed, as she presently was not. Typhani stepped into the conference room and walked straight toward Daala.

Daala finally mustered the nerve to speak as Typhani approached her. "Lady Tarkin--"

"Just call me Typhani," she insisted. "Please, sit back down," she continued in a calm voice. Daala very slowly complied, but wondered if she should call for her security guards. Typhani took the seat right next to her and the two women turned to face each other. Daala was definitely not used to having someone come into her space and take control, but she knew Typhani's reputation very well.

Typhani waited a moment before starting the conversation, watching for some signal that the former Admiral was willing to listen to her. She finally began. "Daala, I have what may be some very important and wonderful news for all of us, and by all of us I mean the Empire--the _real _Empire, the way things were before the Battle of Yavin," she revealed. 

"All right," Daala responded, not sure what to expect.

Typhani took another moment. She could barely control her own elation, as she had waited nearly a quarter of a century to utter these words to someone outside her immediate family. She had never been quite sure how true the rumors were, how far the relationship had gone, or how much if anything her husband had told Daala about their additional plans for her, so she decided to use his more intimate middle name, used only by the family and their very close friends, as a measure of their familiarity and to see the type of reaction it would elicit from the former Admiral. Typhani looked into Daala's emeraldesque eyes, and leaned toward her a bit.

"Adrian is alive," she said softly but firmly.

Daala nearly choked on the very air she breathed, and she cupped her hands over her mouth to muffle the gasp. How long she had ached to hear those words! Her imperious guard totally fell away, and Typhani reached up to gently take her wrists.

"It's true! It's really true, isn't it!" Daala breathed with a burst of emotion unbecoming of her usual demeanor. Still holding her wrists, Typhani nodded in confirmation.

"But, the Rebels, the Death Star, the shuttle--the Rebels said there was no shuttle! The Rebels said he was on the station! Rebels who were there!" Daala felt her head begin to spin. Sensing this, Typhani gave her wrists a reassuring squeeze. Daala stared deep into Typhani's dark brown eyes, as if she could somehow download and assimilate all the information at once. 

Typhani let Daala catch her breath before continuing, "He was already aboard the station when the Battle of Yavin started. What we think happened is that Charlie Bast--surely you remember Charlie--pulled him out at the last minute. They did make it to Adrian's command shuttle, but something happened to them along the way." Daala began to nod slowly, fixated on Typhani, absorbing every syllable. "They got out, and did manage to set course for Tallaan, but the shuttle was very badly damaged. It lost its atmosphere during the flight and crash-landed at the Tallaan Shipyards. The only reason Adrian survived was because he was already injured and someone had strapped him in and put him on air. Everyone else on board had suffocated, except for Charlie. They think he died before the atmosphere blew. Charlie probably partially shielded Adrian from something on the station, but we think the bulk of his injuries happened when the shuttle crashed. The ejectors engaged, and he was thrown . . ." Daala cringed, and the pace of her breath increased. Horrible images flashed through her mind--had he been wasting away as an invalid all these years, finally calling for her from his deathbed? Did he know or understand what she'd done, how she had abandoned the Maw Installation just as the Rebels learned of its existence? How badly she'd failed in battle? Again, and again?

"Where is he?" Daala asked softly.

"Right now, in transit to the Andromeda Medical Center on Lumin," Typhani said.

Daala hesitated, and lowered her voice a bit. "Does he know what happened to the lab?" she asked with trepidation.

"No, he doesn't know about the Installation, or about anything else that has happened since the Battle of Yavin. That's why we're going to need your help. I think you would be a great comfort to him in helping him assimilate everything that has happened since then, especially with the lab. After all, Daala, you are the only surviving receptacle of information about all of the work there, especially the time after Bevel left," Typhani explained. "And, you've been involved in so much since then."

"I don't understand," Daala said, "Has he been in a coma?"

"Carbonite," Typhani answered.

"Carbonite!" Daala echoed.

Typhani nodded again. "He was too badly injured. They couldn't help him, not back then. He's allergic to bacta, you know. The carbonite was the only way to give him a chance for later. Only recently--"

Daala broke in, "That nanobiomechanical cell regeneration project!" Now things were starting to make sense. "They're going to bring him out of the carbonite!"

"If it works, Daala, we'll have a new Emperor soon," Typhani said with a smile, "and I think there would probably be some significant reassignments in the upper echelons of the military around this part of the galaxy." 

Daala looked away. "No," she muttered. "Not after what I've done. Why do you think I retired?" She looked back at Typhani then. "I don't know if I can face him." She recalled the many nightmares she'd had in which her former mentor would return and strike her hard across the face for her failure and promptly relieve her of her rank. Those nightmares had been coming to her for over a decade now, yet in their personal interactions he had never given any indication of such violence, at least not toward her. Daala had often wondered about the source of those images, and fought to gather the courage to ask Typhani a question she had wanted to ask her for some fifteen years now.

Typhani could tell she was troubled about something. "What is it, Daala? We're going to have to be open with each other, for Adrian's sake. I know that's going to be very difficult and awkward for both of us, but we have to try."

Daala nodded again. She lowered her voice again and moved a bit closer to Typhani. "Did he ever hit you?"

Typhani was taken aback such that she actually rolled backwards in her chair, her mouth dropping open in disbelief. She couldn't believe Daala was asking her such a thing, and instantly feared where the question might be coming from. "No! Never! Daala, Adrian never as much as raised his voice to me, let alone a hand!" She couldn't bear to consider the possibility for long, but she had to know. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

Daala shook her head, "No, of course not." 

"Then why would you ask me such a terrible thing?" Typhani asked, regaining her position close to Daala. 

Daala looked away. "I'm just afraid--"

Typhani broke in, reaching over to take Daala's wrist again. "I know how he used fear against people. Did he make you afraid that he would hurt you?"

Daala shook her head again. "Were you afraid of him?"

"No. I was afraid I would lose him to the war, but that was the only fear in our relationship," Typhani assured her. "So why all this talk about hurting one another?"

"It's just that when he finds out what Ive done and what a failure I am, he'll . . " She looked away again, clamming up.

"He'll be upset and disappointed and perhaps a little angry, but he will also want to understand what happened, and what has transpired since then. Daala, you're not a failure. Besides, did he ever talk to you about setbacks, about how they're opportunities to do more the second time around?" Typhani asked.

Daala smiled a bit then at the memory. "Yeah. Often," she said.

"Well, who knows what the two of you will accomplish the second time around," Typhani reassured her. 

Daala looked askance at Typhani. Wrinkling her brow, she said, "But after what happened between us you can't possibly say that you approve of us working together again." The conversation had to take that awkward turn at some point.

Typhani let out a sigh, averted her gaze, and shook her head. "There's also something very painful I have to tell you." She reached up and put a warm hand on the side of Daala's face. "Oh, Daala, it was so unfair to you. We should have both told you--_asked_ you--from the beginning . . . Everything turned out so wrong!"

"What?" Daala demanded, squinting her green eyes at Typhani.

"This is . . .very difficult for me. What happened between you two was my fault--_our _fault. If it had ended up ruining our marriage, we deserved it." Typhani drew another deep breath, then continued. "I had three miscarriages before Lyjéa was born. I had two more miscarriages before Lyscithea was born. That last pregnancy and the delivery were extremely difficult and high-risk. When Scythi was born, I--well, my uterus ruptured and I nearly bled out. They had to do an emergency hysterectomy to save my life. Adrian and I always wanted a large family. We'd had a very bad experience earlier on with an adopted child that we eventually had to send away, so we didn't want to go that route again. Back then, full-term artificial incubation caused so many deformities and health problems that we didn't want to take that approach either, let alone take our chances with an egg from an unknown source. That approach was as bad as cloning turned out to be, if you recall. And, because I am Phelarian and my ovarian ducts were part of my uterus, my eggs were destroyed after Lyscithea was born. Of course, we didn't want to draw publicity or other unwanted attention to ourselves by going through an agency or the like to locate someone to help us. We, quite frankly, didn't want anyone to know we needed that kind of help, especially other branches of our family. I'm not sure if you knew or not, but Admiral Raolf Motti, Adrian's second-in-command on the station, was my first cousin." Typhani averted her eyes from Daala's gaze. "So, to keep the situation as quiet as possible, we decided that Adrian would find someone--someone young and healthy and intelligent, who shared our ideals, and who at least looked like one of us, and, well . . . " White rage began to rise up in Daala's throat, but Typhani continued before she could say anything. "We were both so excited when he got back from Carida! He said that not only had he linked up with someone who would be an invaluable colleague, but that you were female, not male as the profile indicated, and that he'd found our perfect surrogate."

Daala rose to her feet, drew up her fists and spoke through clenched teeth,. "An _incubator_! That's all I was--a blasted _incubator_?"

Typhani's head sank. "I certainly hope not, Daala. I had told him at the outset to be kind to you, and not to treat you like an object. But I don't know what actually happened between you two. You will have to search your own heart for the answer to that."

"And what were you going to do with me when the baby was born, assuming I wanted to give it to you! Kill me? Take the rest of _my_ eggs if I produced an _acceptable_ offspring?" Daala seethed.

"No, Daala, no. I do know what the plan was. We thought that you were the type of person whose career meant everything to you, and that a baby would be a most unwelcome responsibility. The plan was that Adrian would simply take the baby away--take care of the problem for you--and you would continue your career. You were too valuable to him--to the Empire--to throw away like that."

"Great! So I was this wonderful two-in-one package! That's just great! I do not believe I am hearing this! I have never heard anything so blasted _presumptuous_ in my entire _life_!" Daala threw her arms in the air, her hair flew wildly, and she began to pace around the conference room. She felt that she had been used and abused by men all of her life, except for one man, the one person who had looked past her tribulations at the Imperial Military Academy, past her gender, and saved her from a life of undeserved mediocrity, who had been her confidante, listened to her ideas, trusted her (as much as he could ever trust anyone), and given her immense power, someone she admired, idolized, perhaps loved, and who she thought held a similar regard for her--she had saved herself for him, only to have him taken away, then given back, and now to have all of the perceptions she had held for most of her life shattered in a matter of moments!

Shortly after the Battle of Yavin, Typhani had tried to find Daala, concerned that she may have become recently pregnant. When she couldn't find her, she had simply assumed that Daala had gone with the station. Then, when the scandal finally broke, naturally rumors and speculation circulated about whether Daala may have become pregnant by her former mentor. At that point, Typhani had again searched for the elusive little twelve-year-old she had hoped would be there, another living link to her beloved Adrian. Nothing. "But it didn't turn out like that, did it, Daala," Typhani reminded her, trying to maintain a calm and low tone. 

Daala spun around, her dark copper hair flowing in swirls about her body. "No, it didn't! It certainly _did not_! I was careful to _prevent_ that sort of thing!" she seethed. Then she realized, thinking back, that he had figured out her cycle, and timed his visits to the Installation accordingly. 

She walked behind Typhani, then turned on her heel when she noticed something. She marched up behind Typhani and jerked loose the large, jeweled, silver shell clip that held her own long, jet-black tresses in place, and tossed the clip onto the table. Typhani's hair dropped in ebony falls around her shoulders and down the back of the chair, reaching well below the seat. She let out a quick, tight scream and reached for her head, afraid that Daala was about to attack her with all the ferocity of a Rancor.

Daala snorted. She walked back around to face Typhani. "He had a _thing_ for long hair!" she observed sarcastically, now understanding his comments about never having to crop her hair short again.

"Yes," Typhani admitted.

Looking down at Typhani, with her jet tresses cascading about her, Daala then noticed the more than slight resemblance between them. "Well, isn't that terrific! I was young, healthy, intelligent, and looked like you!" Daala turned her back to Typhani and folded her arms across her chest.

Typhani tentatively tried to continue the conversation. "Daala, I know how you must feel," she began.

Daala whirled. "You could not possibly know how I feel!" she retorted. She was angry beyond rage, and her right hand went to her chest as a persistent deep burning threatened to rise up within her and cut off her air.

"How do you think I felt! I felt so inadequate and defective! Why do you think I would ever suggest such a scheme, let alone agree to it! Why in the universe would I knowingly send my own husband willingly into another woman's bed! I was the failure, Daala! It was my own infertile body that failed my husband and our family! And then--then when your relationship turned into something far more than either of us had ever anticipated . . ." She shook her head as if to clear her mind. "He tried to hide it, but I knew! Had Yavin not intervened, I might well have been the one cast aside, if you know what I mean."

Daala's rage ebbed a bit then, as she managed to draw a deep breath. "No," she said, turning back to face Typhani, "No, no, he would have never done that, not to you."

In her heart, Typhani knew that was true, but she couldn't fathom how Daala knew. "The two of you talked about me?" she asked.

"He said you were soul mates," Daala told her. 

"Yes. Everyone always said that about us, even from the beginning. Thats why I cant understand how you two--got as far as you did."

Daala knew. "Typhani, things got out of hand between us because of work. He used to tell me that the two of you had to be careful not to lose touch with each other, with you occupied with your business and the Mining Guild and him with the war. We both had the war, could gripe about the same subordinates, the same Rebels, the same political muck going on in the Senate, and we shared the same interest in military tactics. Wed start talking, and well, inevitably, one thing would lead to another, and, and . . ." Of course she need not explain further. At that point, Typhani realized that part of their mistake had been in choosing someone who had too much in common with both of them. 

Daala wanted another answer. "Typhani, why didn't you just _ask _me? The whole thing could have been done artificially, and none of this would have ever happened," she asked.

"Well, after the way you had been treated on Carida, we were afraid you'd see that as further exploitation. Daala, believe me when I tell you that you got your rank on your merits. I have some inside knowledge about that, although I did not know where you had been assigned. We didnt want you to think that you had to do favors for us--especially one of that magnitude--to keep your position." Typhani explained.

"But what you two ended up doing was _real_ exploitation, Typhani! Don't you think I feel exploited right now, hearing about this?" Daala demanded.

"I know, and I certainly don't blame you for being angry. We've all three hurt each other very badly, but now circumstances dictate that we have to try to heal, for Adrians sake and--and for the good of the Empire." Typhani told her.

"Oh, I've heard that before," Daala retorted sarcastically.

"I have had to make many sacrifices myself for the good of the Empire, Daala," Typhani reminded her. She hesitated. "You know, we share the same experiences of seeing Adrian leave us each time he would go to the war, never knowing if he would come back again. We've had the same knots in our stomachs, haven't we?" 

Daala nodded. 

Typhani continued. "And then, he didn't come back. We have both lost so many years with him. After the first Death Star, I had to take the major role in deciding whether to let him go or to use the carbonite. I chose the carbonite when his sister reminded me of what he wanted most, and we both know what that is. And now I have agreed to bring him out of the carbonite to give him that chance. Do you know the old adage about loving someone enough to let him go? Daala, I know that circumstances may not go my way in the end, and that I may lose him all over again by involving you, but, out of my love for him, I have to give him the best possible opportunity to achieve his dream of becoming Emperor. You are the only person we know who can fill in all of the gaps and give him the full continuity of knowledge that he will need to rebuild and rule the Empire." Her head dropped again, and she wiped a small tearlet from each eye. 

Daala sat back down. "You really are soul mates," she said. They sat in silence for a few moments. 

"Will you help us?" Typhani finally asked.

Daala felt very much put on the spot. She had adopted a neutral stance in the entire Imperial Remnant/New Republic mess since her final retirement after her "encounter" in battle with Garn Bel Iblis about eight years previous--not so much neutral, in fact, than indifferent. She had long since decided that it was time to look out for Daala instead of trying and failing so many times to protect the interests of others. Still, she contemplated, her deepest loyalties still lay with the Empire--with the old school Empire--and ultimately with the one person who had ever believed in her. Were her loyalties not intact, she reasoned, she would have long since destroyed what she held.

No, she was no longer an Admiral, had no fleet, had lost her fleet, the lab, and so much more, and had not had the benefit of Wilhuff Tarkin's steady-handed guidance and inspiration for twenty-five years. But when she looked inside herself, what she had gained from all of those experiences was enough to make her a self-assured, independent woman who had not stewed to death in resentment and frustration, who had gained enough self-confidence and self-respect to take her own stance, enough so as to wash her hands of the galactic infighting and say so, to commune with whomever she chose whenever, and to help or not help others as she pleased. She had gained much from the entire situation, despite any ulterior motives that might have existed, and, after all, never came to fruition anyway. If that ulterior motive had been his only objective, she knew, she would be long dead by now, and her child at Typhani's side. That hidden agenda still angered her, and the sensible side of herself wanted badly to decline, but the emotionally driven thought of being reunited with Adrian in any way, even in a mentor/protégé sort of way, even in the brief time she had left, overwhelmed her sensibilities. 

When she first came to Pedducis Chorios, all Daala had wanted, in her own words, was a place to live out the rest of her life where she would not be disturbed. That, of course, did not happen, as she was disturbed time and again by her own inner callings as well as those from outside. And now that she faced the possibility of her end far sooner than she had expected, she really did not want to die on the drab and dusty world. 

There was something inviting about Typhani as well, a similar, guiding, protective energy that she'd also sensed from Adrian. Something unseen seemed to be telling her to go with Typhani, to go with her back to Adrian, to help them and let them help her, that they could perhaps save her. The survival of her greatest treasure--and likely her greatest accomplishment and contribution to the Empire--certainly depended upon taking Typhani's hand and crossing the perilous bridge back to her past, back to the time when it had been glorious and successful. She had almost forgotten what that felt like--almost, but not completely. A small glimmer of that pride still flickered within her, and it illuminated her memories of Adrian and all that he had helped her achieve.

Daala finally nodded to Typhani. "I wouldn't be where I am today--_who_ I am today--if . . . " She looked away.

"I know," Typhani acknowledged. 

"C'mon," Daala said, motioning for Typhani to follow her. "I'd like to show you some things." Then she turned back to the table. "Here's you clip. Where do you get these? They seem to work really well."

Together they walked through one of the breezeways into the main house. The interior of Daala's private residence reflected its rustic and "outdoorsy" exterior, with stone floors covered here and there with native-woven rugs, and a huge stone fireplace comprising one whole wall, a spectacular decorative mandala of feathers in blues and greens and purples hanging above the mantle. An eclectic gathering of simple, low, comfortable, yet largely unupholstered furniture filled the rooms, and clusters of various types of clay pots with shrubby native plants in them sat on the floor in the corners and under the low, expansive windows. Typhani could also not help but notice that the house was rather dusty, messy, and unkempt. She noticed the dirty dishes piled up in the kitchen as they passed the open doorway, and two piles of obviously dirty laundry on the floor in a front bedroom. There was no sign of a servant or household droid anywhere.

Typhani followed Daala into her study, and she proceeded to a section of data tapes on a shelf on the back wall. "I have the only copies of these," she said, "other than the backups I made. Every one of his prerecorded lecture series for the Academy." 

Typhani knew the only known complete and intact set of the series had been lost on Carida. "You see, Daala, it's things like this that will be so helpful to him," she said, running her hand over the spines of the cases containing the recordings.

"Oh, there's lots more where that came from," Daala said as she went to her desk and removed a small key. She unlocked a fire-shielded cabinet below an expanse of bookshelves. Inside was a large safe. Daala quickly entered the combination and pulled the door open. "No one knows I have these," she said. Inside were four huge computer data cells; each cell could hold millions--perhaps billions--of pages of data. Typhani recognized the cells, but their significance was as yet lost on her.

"What are they?" she asked.

"I core-dumped the lab's computers. I pulled everything into the _Gorgon's_ computer banks before I high-tailed it out of there," Daala explained.

"Everything?" Typhani asked breathily, stooping close to examine the data cells.

"From the first day we brought the systems up to the day I had to, well . . ." Daala assured her, but looked away at the mention of the destruction of the lab.

"This is incredible, Daala. Don't you see, you _have_ done your duty. It wasn't the physical structure of the lab itself that was so important. It was this! You were assigned to protect it, and you have! You have done your duty, and you are not a failure!"

"No, I guess not," Daala admitted finally to herself aloud, with a bit of a smile. "When I found out he wasn't coming back, I, uh, I retrieved some things from his rooms at the Installation. There are some other things, but I don't know if you . . ."

"No, it's all right. Please, show me," Typhani insisted. 

Daala walked to the other end of the room and opened up another lower cabinet. From an interior shelf, she removed a neatly folded throw, smaller that a blanket but larger than a shawl or scarf, with a type of faux fur textile on one side and a smooth, dark blue lining with silver flecks in it on the other. One corner appeared to have been burned, and then repaired. "He was so cold-natured," Daala remembered. "He used to carry this thing around--usually took it with him--but he must have inadvertently left it behind when he left the lab the last time. He and Bevel left in such a hurry, and housekeeping had folded it and put it across the foot of the bed." She had been unfolding the throw as she talked and so she didn't notice the pensive expression on Typhani's face or that she was reaching for it with both hands. Daala extended it to her, albeit reluctantly, and Typhani took hold of it in large, embracing handfuls and clutched it to her, eventually raising it to her face. Then Daala realized that Typhani was crying into the blanket. "See, I knew I was going to upset you," she said.

Typhani pulled the throw away from her face. "No, I'm not upset! It's just that I have the other one, and we've had these with us since the first time--since we first met! I turned our houses upside down looking for this, and I thought it had gone with the station!"

Next Daala pulled out a small, silver, shell-encrusted picture frame that contained a holoplate of Lyjéa and Lyscithea when they were about nine and seven years old. She thought back to the time right after the Rebels first arrived in the Maw and told her the unthinkable. Late in the night, after her meetings with Tol Sivron and others, she had gone back down to the Installation, to Adrian's quarters, sealed herself inside, then fell across the bed in devastated sobs. She remembered taking the picture of the girls, and then staring into Typhani's picture for a long time, wondering what kind of horror she must have gone though, and if she and the girls were all right. The awful thought had then occurred to her that they might have been on the Death Star as well. She dared not ask the Rebels about their welfare, but she had checked on them straight away after her first battle.

"Oh, that's a good one. I remember framing it," Typhani said, looking over Daala's shoulder at the holoplate of her daughters.

Daala was introspective for a moment. "What are they like?" she asked.

"You'll meet them," Typhani assured her.

"How is . . ." Daala asked, stroking Lyjéa's image with her finger.

"Oh, she does fine. She got tenure last year," Typhani said with a smile of pride as she draped the throw over her arm. 

"When are they going to do it?" Daala asked.

"What?" Typhani asked.

"Bring him out of the carbonite," Daala reminded her. The reminiscences and revelations had taken them away from the main purpose of Typhani's visit.

Typhani winced visibly. The time was drawing so very close, and she was growing more nervous by the day. "Next week," she said, the concern coming through in her voice.

"Okay," Daala said. "Let's bring him home." Then she smiled openly. "Let's bring back our Empire!"

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	5. Last Night Alone

Chapter 5:  
  
Last Night Alone  
  
Before her mother had told them everything, Lyscithea had rehearsed at least a hundred pieces of her mind that she intended to give to the infamous and illustrious Admiral Daala should they ever meet. Daala, on the other hand, greeted Lyjéa and Lyscithea warmly. "I'm so glad to finally meet you two," she said. "I feel like I've known you since you were little."  
  
"That's sooooo sweet," Lyscithea thought sarcastically, still wary of her mother's decision to involve Daala. Typhani had said nothing of the data cells.  
  
For years, perhaps ever since the beginning, Daala had wondered about what it would be like to meet Adrian's family, particularly his daughters. He had told her a great deal about them, and she'd also heard much about them from other officers who had met them at banquets and conventions and such. The image of them she had in her mind was still of the two little girls in the silver-framed holoplate, the younger one holding fast to the older one's hand, the older girl not quite looking into the camera.  
  
But now Daala marveled at the two grown women who faced her, who seemed in pose and stance much as images of their mother had seemed when she first met their father. In seeing them, she finally began to allow herself to believe that the forthcoming events were real. In them, she could see Adrian, in Lyjéa's high, prominent cheekbones and the telltale streaks of premature gray in her hair, and in Lyscithea's peircing blue Eriaduan eyes. It gave her comfort, helped her ease herself into the realization that the most important person in her life was not dead after all, and that she would soon be reunited with him.  
  
"I can't tell you how many times my students and I stood jumping up and down in front of the holovision in my classroom rooting for you over the years!" Lyjéa greeted. "That hit on the Jedi Academy was spectacular! You hit them where it hurts, in the psyche, and you made those filthy Rebel scum Jedi vermin feel vulnerable! Of course, we knew what you were trying to do, and we've always been very grateful to you for it. You did for us what we couldn't do ourselves. But rest assured, we'd have been right alongside you if we'd had the chance!"  
  
Daala cracked a soft smile at that, one that she knew Lyjéa couldn't see. "Believe me, you didn't want to be there," Daala assured her. "But for your father, I'd do it all over again!"  
  
Morgana had been watching Daala from across the room, looking on at what she could have been. The younger, more successful woman brought back a lot of memories. Typhani stepped up to introduce the two.  
  
"The Guardian of the Gatekeepers!" Morgana acknowledged.  
  
"I don't understand," Daala replied.  
  
"Something Adrian used to call you. A code name, I suppose," Morgana explained.  
  
"I don't know. I never heard that," Daala revealed.  
  
"Well, I suppose you know Adrian and his cryptic ways as well as any of us," Morgana observed.  
  
"Yes, I suppose I do," Daala agreed, smiling softly again.  
  
"As long as you know and keep your place this time . . . " Morgana thought.  
  
As the afternoon progressed, conversations dwindled in the suite of apartments that the five women would use as a base of operations for the next few weeks--if all went well. As night fell, the imminent reality of tomorrow's events became more and more real to each of them. For Typhani, was the longing about to end, be prolonged again, or would it be snuffed out in ultimate grief? Daala nursed her own feelings of shame and inadequacy, and Lyjéa and Lyscithea had similar concerns of what their father would think of them. Had they lived up to his expectations? Morgana wondered whether she would continue to be alone, and if not, would her brother be the same? Of course, he couldn't be told right away that twenty- five years had elapsed, and he would have to be told before his daughters could see him. Typhani, Morgana, and Daala had each taken steps to make themselves look as much as possible like they did on the day of the Battle of Yavin. And, of course, he would have to be told about the lab before Daala could see him. Even though they knew it would be several days to weeks before he would even be aware enough to start assimilating any of these facts, they all wanted to be there when the carbonite melted away.  
  
Lyjéa and Lyscithea were in Lyjéa's room having an intimate conversation when their mother came in on her way to bed. "Daala doesn't know how to dress," Lyscithea had been telling Lyjéa as Typhani walked in.  
  
"She doesn't know how to decorate or properly direct housekeeping, either," Typhani told them as she sat down on the edge of the bed next to Lyjéa.  
  
"Good. All things to our advantage," Lyscithea thought.  
  
"If you had worn uniforms all of your life and been locked up in Dad's lab for fifteen years, you wouldn't know how to do those things yourselves," Lyjéa observed. "But she probably can't supervise a cook either."  
  
"Girls, what do you think now that she's here?" Typhani asked.  
  
"I don't know, Mom. On the one hand, I can see where she'll be a big help to Dad. But on the other, after what happened, I just don't know," Lyscithea admitted.  
  
"Scythi, I just don't see her as the type of person our father would have at his side at an official event. If she lacks style that badly . . . She just doesn't have that--that presence like Mother does," Lyjéa offered.  
  
"Why thank you, Lyjéa," Typhani said sweetly.  
  
"It's true! She comes across flat to me," Lyjéa continued.  
  
"All right, then. Let's hope she turns out to be no more than a good military and historical advisor, which is the reason why I brought her here," Typhani said. At that point, they heard the water stop running in the adjacent suite, which signaled them to end their Daala-bashing session before it was overheard.  
  
"Well, I guess I'd better be off to bed," Typhani said as she straightened her lotion-pink satinesque bathrobe and rose to leave.  
  
"Mom," Lyscithea called after her. Typhani turned back slightly to face her daughter, putting her hand on the doorjamb. "Are you going to be all right tonight?"  
  
Typhani closed her eyes. "No worse than the night your Uncle Darth brought me home and we told you that your father had died. That was the beginning of my ordeal. Let's just hope tonight is the end." With that, she turned and walked down the hall to her room.  
  
"She won't sleep," Lyjéa said after she heard her mother's door close.  
  
"I know. I'll check on her," Lyscithea replied. They started to continue their conversation when Lyscithea looked up and noticed Daala standing in the bedroom door wearing drab blue sweat suit-like pajamas and white military-issue socks, her hair wrapped in a towel. At that point, Lyscithea's curiosity overcame her suspicions, and she motioned for Daala to come into the room with them. She reluctantly did so, and took a seat in the other chair opposite Lyscithea.  
  
The three were silent for a moment, then Lyjéa turned her face in Daala's direction. "Tell us about the lab," she suggested.  
  
Typhani had, of course, not been completely asleep, but she became more alert when she heard bursts of laughter coming from the direction of Lyjéa's room. She quietly got up and crept down the hall, carefully looking around the doorjamb so as not to be detected.  
  
"He was the stupidest Twi'lek I ever met!" Daala continued. "What your father ever saw in that nerd I know not! He used to sit at his desk and play like a little kid with the concept models the scientists would bring him. If you made him mad, he'd do this silly little thing with his head tails, like this," she demonstrated, twisting tendrils of her now-dry reddish hair around her fingers and wiggling them in the air. Lyjéa reached over to feel what she was doing, and they all three cackled again. "I used to tick him off just to get him to do it," Daala laughed.  
  
"And then--oh Lyjéa, you're going to love this--there was this idiot Devaronian tech writer . . . "  
  
Typhani turned and put her back to the wall, her right hand over her mouth. Seeing the three of them like that, chatting, laughing, sharing, like sisters, revealed to her the full scope of their error. Why, she lamented, why hadn't they seen it? If they had been able to start a family from the very beginning, she realized, and they had borne a daughter, she would be about Daala's age by now. If only Adrian had brought Daala home first instead of taking her directly to the lab, then maybe they would have seen that they should have just taken her under wing, instead of proceeding with their other plans! He had brought others home, she remembered, like that adorable little feather-haired Omwati girl. Why couldn't the shuttle schedules have been equally disrupted when he returned from Carida with Daala? They had made a terrible mistake, had hurt each other and an innocent third person who was very important to them, because they had not paid attention, having been so wrapped up in their own needs and desires that they had lost perspective. But, she thought with a twinge of hope, maybe all would be better the second time around.  
  
Typhani eased herself back into her bed, moving instinctively to one side as she still did from time to time when she would think of Adrian in the night, clutching the other, empty pillow. He was so close to her now, closer than he had been in so many years, and she reached out to him with her mind and her heart. She had always tried not to think of him in the carbonite, knowing how much aversion he had to the cold and to small spaces. She hoped he didn't remember any of it, as Viorska had assured her that he would not.  
  
Her very fingertips tingled at the thought of touching him again; her arms ached to hold him. As that last night wore on, her longing only intensified, as if those last few hours seemed as long as the last few years. She had often thought of what might have been if they'd had no children, or if the girls had been grown and on their own by the Battle of Yavin. Had either case been true, Typhani reflected, she would have insisted that Viorska encapsulate her as well as her husband, so that they could return together, picking up their lives where they had left off.  
  
Such had not been, though. Typhani had two young daughters to think of, and Rivoche was still under her wing at the time as well. She had other responsibilities as well, providing the Empire with megonite and maintaining Imperial control of Phelarion, hosting official events, and helping in whatever way she could after the Battle of Endor. She had saved a number of Imperial lives by prividing safe refuge to fleeing officers and their families as the New Republic took over former Imperial worlds. She'd been an advisor and a sounding board to others, including Ysanne Isard, Gilad Pellaeon, and Ian Thrawn. Often, the others would not act without her feedback and approval.  
  
She had carried on alone, with a strength others found astounding-- the strength of a Grand Moff. Indeed, she had pinned her husband's insignia to her own grament many times in private when she needed endurance, confidence, and resolve. She had kept it all safe for him, for a time when he might return and restore the Galactic Empire to the glory it once knew. 


	6. From Out of the Icy Darkness

Chapter 6:  
  
From Out of the Icy Darkness  
  
It was about an hour before daybreak when Lyscithea found her mother in her bathroom, being ill. "Mom, listen, you're going to have to take this stuff," Lyscithea told her, reaching for the bottle of sedatives that sat beside her sink.  
  
"No, Scythi, I don't want to be out of it when they start the decarbonization." Typhani insisted. "I'll be all right. I'm just nervous, that's all." Lyscithea just shook her head, and tucked the small bottle of medicine into her robe pocket for later transfer to her purse.  
  
Everyone got dressed in near silence. Daala watched with intense interest as Lyjéa brushed her own hair into place, put on her make-up, and selected and put on her jewelry from a travel case she carried.  
  
"She's watching every move you make," Lyscithea whispered to her sister as she reached for her overcoat that the servant droid had laid out for her.  
  
"Well," Lyjéa replied, reaching for her own coat, "I doubt she's ever met a blind person before. She's probably just curious," she suggested, adjusting her hat.  
  
"Where's your mother?" Morgana asked.  
  
Lyscithea hesitated as she pulled on her black leather gloves. She said nothing as she walked down the hall toward her mother's suite. The others stood pensively, waiting. Typhani looked weak and pale. Daala and Lyscithea helped her with her cape and scarf. "We'd better be on our way," Typhani said to the four others. "They want to meet with us before they start."  
  
Typhani and her entourage were escorted into a large and comfortable waiting room that had been converted into a luxurious lounge for them, its door flanked by guards. "I've been here before," Typhani thought uneasily. A young woman about Lyscithea's age with shoulder-length, curly, dark- blonde hair and hazel eyes came in to meet with them as they piled all of their wraps onto one chair. She sat down in a chair across from the five of them, resting a clipboard thick with paperwork and a medical datapad on her knees. Daala and Lyscithea scrutinized her the most; Daala would serve as the de facto security officer for the group.  
  
"Hello, everyone," the young doctor addressed them, "My name is Tierra Keldwyyn. I'm from Eriadu, and I'll be your daytime liaison for the duration. Um, we just found out this morning who we would be working with-- pretty exciting! Now I know what all those security checks were about. So, let me tell you a little bit about what I'll be doing. We decided to have liaisons for you because there will be so many people and droids around that we felt it would be better if you had one person you could go to who would know, at least in general, what's going on. As I said, I'm on the day shift. Rohmm Cydras, you'll meet him later, he's on the night shift, and Nortia Yeaant will switch out with us on our off shifts. It'll be a couple of days before you meet her," Tierra began to explain. Daala and Lyjéa wished they had brought their mobile computers. "First of all," Tierra continued, "I need to know who's who. Lady Tarkin, of course I know you, now which one is the sister?"  
  
"I'm Morgana," she acknowledged herself. "and my brother is very special to me. I have only one left. Please be careful."  
  
"Of course we will," Tierra assured her. "And the daughters," she continued, pointing to each of them with the stylus from her datapad, "let's see, you're Lyscithea, and you're Lyjéa."  
  
"Got it!" Lyscithea confirmed.  
  
"I can't see you," Lyjéa told her, "and so I will need you to acknowledge yourself to me until I learn your voiceprint."  
  
"Yes, of course," Tierra acknowledged, and made a note on her clipboard. "And someone said there was a--one note says 'friend of the family,' another note says 'military advisor,'" Tierra continued, pointing her stylus at Daala.  
  
"Yes. I'm Daala. And, I'm a little of both."  
  
"Oh!" Tierra exclaimed, wide eyed. "You're the lady Admiral!"  
  
"Not anymore," Daala muttered. "I wasn't very good at it."  
  
"Oh, nonsense!" Tierra continued, waving a hand at her. "You were fantastic! We really hate Rebel scum around here."  
  
"So do we!" Lyscithea affirmed.  
  
But then a strange expression crept across Tierra's face, one that told Typhani she had heard the rumors. She indicatively reached over and took Daala's hand. The young doctor nodded slightly in acknowledgment tinged with confusion. She didn't dare ask.  
  
Tierra continued on a more serious note. "Okay, the first thing I need to let you know is that we might not decarbonize until tomorrow. We're still running some scans to make sure we know exactly what we're up against."  
  
Typhani emitted a small squeak, and her head sank into her hand, her elbow resting on the arm of the chair in which she sat. "Not another night!" she thought. "It's been so long, and I can't take another night alone!"  
  
Morgana put an arm around her. "We don't want them to rush," she said.  
  
"I know, I know. It's all right," Typhani said weakly.  
  
Tierra continued when Typhani looked back at her. "Next, we just want to make sure that you understand that what is about to happen is not like what happens in the holovids. He's not just going to wake up and immediately know everybody and remember everything and walk out of here tomorrow. Now the good news is that he won't have nearly as bad a time with what we call 'memory rush.' Are any of you familiar with that?" Only Daala nodded, and so Tierra continued. "When someone comes out of carbonite encapsulation and the brain turns itself back on," she continued to explain, "there's a similar effect to bringing up a computer. You know that when you boot a computer after it has been shut down, all of the information in the computer immediately becomes available to you again. The memory works the same way after carbonite encapsulation. Once the brain reactivates, a person's memories tend to flood back all at once, and this can cause extreme confusion and even some psychological problems in certain people. But because his perceptions will already be slowed down due to the other head injuries, it won't be as bad, and he should be able to handle it just fine. Nonetheless, we'll keep a close eye on him for this type of stress during the first forty-eight hours.  
  
"After that, and once were sure he's stable, then we'll establish lines and start with the neurobooster and the cell regeneration formula. But you all need to understand that it may be several days to a week or more before he's aware of anything at all, and that awareness will come very, very gradually. Any questions?"  
  
Nothing, but Typhani leaned her head on Morgana's shoulder.  
  
"All right, then. I'll keep you updated, and let you know in the event they do decide to decarbonize later today. My post is behind the nurse's station, and you can reach me with that comlink," Tierra explained, indicating the comlink on the table in the corner of the room. "Please don't hesitate let me know if any of you have any questions or concerns or if you need anything" With that, she left the five women to their own concerns.  
  
"I was worried about the memory rush," Daala commented as the door closed behind Tierra. "I've known people who went crazy from it, and the older you are, the worse it is. I certainly wouldn't want fifty-six years crammed into a few hours. He's lucky on that one."  
  
"I suppose we have to be thankful for every little benefit that comes our way right now," Morgana observed.  
  
Several hours passed with no word. Typhani finally dozed a bit, leaning on Morgana. Daala read magazines as Lyjéa graded some student assignments and dictated some lesson plans for her sub. Lyscithea had left for awhile to call Kormath and speak to her children, but she had returned and dozed on the sofa opposite her mother. Then the door opened, and Typhani and Morgana both looked up with delight and a sense of relief, as if someone had walked into the room who would somehow make everything all right.  
  
"Gilad!" Morgana acknowledged. "It's good of you to come!" She rose to greet him. Daala was also very surprised to see him, but even more surprised at the familiarity between him and Morgana, as they engaged in a friendly hug, but a hug nonetheless.  
  
Daala was also taken somewhat aback by his appearance, now extremely thin, and very old, now eighty-three, though he looked even older. The last time Daala had seen him in person was when they parted ways upon her resignation/retirement after the loss of the Super Star Destroyer Knight Hammer during a battle in the Yavin system about twelve years previous.  
  
He and Morgana seemed to look deep into each other's eyes for a long moment, holding each other at the arms. Then, he looked down at Typhani.  
  
"Have they started yet?" he asked.  
  
Typhani was resting her chin on the back of her left hand, and she just shook her head. Then he noticed Daala as he and Morgana finally let go of each other. He assumed a seat next to her. Paleb Viorska had told him that she would be among "The Emperor's Own," as they had code-named the group, but he was a bit surprised--no, impressed--that Typhani had actually pulled it off.  
  
"Hello, Admiral," he greeted her, never in his heart accepting her resignation, although he was compelled to do so officially. "It's good to see you here."  
  
Daala folded her hands in her lap. "We've had this discussion, Admiral Pellaeon," she reminded him.  
  
"Oh, come now! Your Emperor will be giving you a new assignment soon," he said.  
  
"We shall see," she said softly.  
  
It hurt him to see her like that. True, he had seen her battered and shaken from her narrow escape from the Knight Hammer, but, despite the fact that she was weak and nearly dehydrated from several days of floating in space in an escape pod, she maintained her customary military stance and remained ready to accept whatever command he gave her as soon as she recovered from the ordeal. Now, though, she was obviously broken, beaten down, burned out. Of course, he understood why, but in his opinion of her, she didn't deserve to be in this state of mind.  
  
It could be worse, though, he reminded himself. Although she had responded sporadically to some of his holonet requests for tactical information over the past few years, getting Daala off of Pedducis Chorios since the peace accord had been next to impossible. He knew. He had tried. In hindsight, though, he was thankful that he had not succeeded. Daala had been through enough, he reasoned, and, considering the present circumstances, she had needed the rest and the opportunity to rebuild her strength and regain her confidence.  
  
Almost eight years had transpired since the last great rage of battles between the Imperial Remnants and the New Republic. The Rebels had recently been shaken by the election of a number of former Imperial leaders to their ranks, a bombing of their Senate chambers, and a takeover threat from one rogue Kueller, but, as usual, they had survived. In one last effort, Pellaeon recalled, he, Viorska, and some other Imperial Remnant leaders in the Core Worlds had attempted to kick the Rebels in the gut while they were down.  
  
Once again stirred to action by her former mentor's dedication to the Empire and doctrine of "never give up," Daala had experienced a brief change of heart, partly in response to Pellaeon's own question of whether Adrian would have given up after the loss of the Death Star had he escaped uninjured. For his rhetorical question, Pellaeon had almost gotten Daala killed. She had journeyed to the Core Worlds in another attempt to unite the newly-risen warlords there, and to assist in their stab against the Rebels. However, the battles and the rancor between the combatants that ensued had been ruinous for the Imperial Remnants, and they lost their strongholds in the Core Worlds altogether. The Rebels were prepared to strike out with rancid vengeance at all that had happened to them. At the climax of the final battle, Rebel General Garn Bel Iblis had attempted to intercept Daala's flagship and capture her by having two of his ships close in on her on each side. Characteristic of her escape from the Maw, she ran full-force into one of Bel Iblis' ships, obliterating it--but badly damaging her own and almost ending up in the very situation Adrian currently found himself, nursing several broken ribs, a dislocated vertebrae, and a massive concussion that had actually left her with a hairline skull fracture. These blows came in addition to the psychological realization that two members of her bridge crew had literally thrown themselves on top of her, partially shielding her from the impact and saving her life. Once they were safe in hyperspace, Daala pulled herself from beneath the two bloodied corpses and crawled into a nearby corner in a daze, hoping that she would die before the remaining members her crew found her, or that they would finish her off when they did, feeling she deserved no less considering her record of repeated, and repeatedly devastating, defeats. She only vaguely remembered being taken down to sick bay.  
  
She limped home, again, and, after recovering from her injuries, turned her attention back to the business of what remained of her colony, rarely even leaving her house for months. That's when Pellaeon heard a most deadly rumor. Daala had once annihilated a colony of Rebels--a colony about the size of her own--on Dantooine shortly after she emerged from the Maw. In the face of escalated hostilities, one of his top commanders alerted him of some intelligence that a Rebel faction was planning to hit Daala's colony in retaliation. Since the loss of the Knight Hammer, Pellaeon had come to view himself as Daala's protector in the absence of his close associate, Wilhuff Tarkin. Once again, her connection to Tarkin proved to be her salvation. Recalling the Tallaan Shipyards shuttle crash story circulated after the destruction of the first Death Star, Pellaeon issued an official death notice for Daala, without her knowledge, claiming that she had indeed been lost in the maneuver against Bel Iblis. He knew that it was Daala the Rebels wanted, speculating correctly that they would leave the colony alone if they thought she was out of the picture, and so he sought to distract them long enough until things settled down. Fortunately, it worked. The Rebel faction directed its wrath elsewhere, and life on Pedducis Chorios had continued as normal. The Rebels didn't discover the truth until just after the peace accord, and to take Daala and her colony at that point would have been a blatant and direct violation of it.  
  
Pellaeon moved across the room then to speak to Typhani. "Are you all right?" he asked kindly.  
  
"I just want him back," she whispered.  
  
"I know," he said, "We all do, but certainly not as much as you."  
  
Then he noticed the sisters. "Ah, Lyjéa, and little Scythi, not so little anymore," he acknowledged them. "I remember when you two used to skate through my ready room, and now you run one of the largest companies in the Outer Rim and you teach tech writing to half the galaxy! Scythi, how are those boys?"  
  
"They're wonderful, thank you, Admiral," Lyscithea told him with a soft smile.  
  
He couldn't stay long, as there was an important Council meeting the next day. In parting, he assured them that he would be kept abreast of the progress. "I just want you all to know that although I can't be here with you in person during this time, I am here with you in spirit," he said genuinely as he rose to leave.  
  
But then he turned back abruptly, but deliberately, and looked directly at Daala. "Admiral!" he said, with a stiff Imperial salute.  
  
Weakly and half-heartedly, she returned his gesture, then looked away, letting her hand drop back into her lap with a thud. "Oh, Pellaeon . . . " she ventured, almost under her breath.  
  
Morgana leaned close to Typhani and whispered, "Adrian will pull her out of it."  
  
It was late afternoon by this point, and Admiral Pellaeon had been gone but half an hour when Tierra returned. She had a more stiff, urgent demeanor about her this time as she came in and took a seat. She glanced at each of them, but then looked mainly at Typhani as she addressed them. "They've decided to go ahead and get started," she said. "Now I'll be coming in periodically to let you know how things are going, but it may be very late in the night or perhaps even tomorrow before we can let you in to see him."  
  
Typhani sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. "Adrian, come back to me . . . " she whispered. 


	7. Reunion

Chapter 7:  
  
Reunion  
  
Rohmm Cydras knocked softly on the lounge door as he entered again in the wee hours of the morning. His last two reports had been good. The decarbonization process itself had gone smoothly, and stabilization had begun, with three medical teams working simultaneously. Everyone rose to face him, five breaths held in the night. But he was smiling. Rohmm had impressed upon them that he was a bright, witty, kind young man, a native of Coruscant, with an upbeat sense of humor, but a steady hold on reality as well.  
  
"I am happy to report that the Emperor is now out of recovery, and we're about to move this mission to the critical care unit. We got in and got the major problems straight away this time," he reported. Rohmm could sense the tension in the room lift among the sighs of relief. "I'm going to take you in two groups now. So, if the Empress and the First Sister of the Imperial Remnant will follow me . . . " he said, opening the door and extending his hand into the hallway.  
  
Again, there was little they could see amid the droids and dressings and monitoring machines. "Let me just explain a couple of things," Rohmm began quietly. "Now he was trying to take a few breaths on his own, but he wasn't doing very well, so we've got him on the respirator to save his strength. The more work we can do for him right now, the more energy can go toward healing," he explained. "And he's got the sleep shade on because we've learned that if we introduce light very slowly, and only for an increasingly limited amount of time each day, it minimizes or even eliminates the problem of reduced vision from long-term encapsulation. That has to stay put for now. Don't move it."  
  
Morgana took a tentative step forward and leaned over her brother. "Welcome back, Adrian," she said softly, then to Rohmm, "You don't know how relieved I am."  
  
"Yes, ma'am, I think I do. But I don't want to give you any false hope. This isn't over yet," he cautioned her.  
  
Typhani stood in a sphere all her own. She hadn't even heard Rohmm and Morgana. It seemed as though a howling winter Phelarian storm-wind shrieked around her, and that a veil of cold, damp, suffocating fog a quarter century thick was finally beginning to dissipate.  
  
"If you'll come along so I can bring the others in," Rohmm suggested, "and then you can cycle in and out in ones and twos."  
  
Of course, Typhani wanted so badly to go to him at that point, but she knew if she did, they would never be able to pull her away. The girls needed to see their father, and Daala needed to see first-hand what the Rebels had done. Then she would come back. Morgana stepped out of the room and Typhani reluctantly followed.  
  
Five minutes later, Lyjéa and Lyscithea Tarkin stood before their father for the first time in their adult lives. Lyjéa had always been the stoic one, but now she groped forward toward her father to touch him somehow, to make sure he was really there after all this time. "Scythi, help me!" she cried.  
  
"No, Lyjéa, don't. Not yet," Lyscithea cautioned her.  
  
"It's probably a good idea to wait. We don't want to risk introducing too much outside stimulation until we're sure he's stable and past the memory rush. It can make the confusion worse if you intervene," Rohmm explained gently, but he could understand Lyjéa's need, and felt bad for her at that moment.  
  
"Scythi, is he really there," Lyjéa cried, reaching toward the sound of her sister's voice.  
  
Lyscithea drew her close. "Yeah, Lyjéa. He's really there," she reassured her as tears began to streak her own cheeks. Lyjéa leaned into her younger sister, extending her free hand in the direction of her father. All of these years she'd done without it, done without that protective contact she had always known to be there when she had reached for it as a child, through all of her own painful eye surgeries and endless treatments and various droids and sensing devices and other gadgets that didn't work, and visor systems and other artificial vision contraptions that equally didn't work and only caused her more pain and disappointment . . .  
  
Daala had been standing behind them, fixated on the image before her, an inner rage burning again because she could presently do nothing to help him. "Oh, Adrian, what have those dispicable Rebels done to you," she whispered as she took a step forward to put a caring hand on Lyjéa's shoulder. She suddenly felt out of place, as if she was intruding on a moment that should belong only to his daughters. "I'll leave you two alone now," she said softly, then stepped quietly out of the room. That impressed Lyscithea, who had been inwardly resenting the fact that she and her sister had to share their reunion with their father with someone outside the family.  
  
For the next day and a half, they cycled in and out, but were cautioned to stay back and not to say anything alarming. Finally, when the medcenter staff was sure the memory effects of the carbonite had passed, Rohmm came to the lounge to get Typhani. "Start talking to him," he said. "Bring us back our Emperor!"  
  
At last, Typhani slipped into the room alone with her husband. Slowly, she sat down next to him, hardly believing that it was real after so much time. She wanted so very badly to gather him up in her arms and hold him close, but there were too many things in the way, too many monitors and machines, too many lines that couldn't be disturbed, and too many bandages, dressings, and splints, and so she had to be very careful not to disturb him too much. She leaned close, and with her right hand slightly trembling, she reached through the rails to make contact with him, the back of her hand coming to rest gently against the side of his head at the temple, and she reached through with her left hand to carefully grasp his wrist at the pulse point. Then, she closed her eyes and began to visualize their symbiotic energies coursing through each other again. The reconnection was instantaneous for her. She could feel him, his essence, and she knew that he was still there.  
  
Finally, she let the upper rail down and leaned closer to him, speaking softly, "Adrian, you've been in a very bad accident, it's all right now. I'm here, and so are Morgana and the girls. We need you to come back to us now, and the Empire needs you very much as well."  
  
As everyone expected, Typhani would not leave her husband. She hadn't been back to their suite of apartments in a nearby corporate complex for days, and so one corner of their lounge at the medcenter became devoted to Typhani's luggage and other essentials. The medcenter staff knew that there would be no compromising with the Empress on this matter, so they quickly put a second bed in Adrian's room for her.  
  
She couldn't fathom how he was going to get any better, though, with doctors and nurses and droids--droids upon droids--in and out all the time, checking this and adjusting that, changing his position every two to three hours, monitoring him carefully for pain and stress, and responding in droves to even the slightest change in his condition. They would be left alone for no more than two standard hours at a time, and the traffic quickly began to wear upon Typhani as well, although she understood the necessity of it all.  
  
Occasionally, Daala and the girls would slip in quietly, and as soon as the thought it was safe, Typhani took Lyjéa's hand and put it in her father's. Morgana, on the other hand, began to take a more aggressive approach when, after ten days, there had been no change whatsoever in his level of awareness.  
  
"Adrian!" she said sternly, leaning close over her brother. "Whlhuff Adrian Tarkin, you wake up, right now! The Rebels are getting way out of hand, and you need to crack down hard!" Nothing. She tried again later, something she remembered that had always been failsafe during their long teenage years back in their family's expansive compound on Eriadu. "Adrian, wake up! Dinner's ready!" Typhani chuckled a bit at that. "Well, it always worked before," Morgana said with good humor as she sat down opposite Typhani and took her brother's hand.  
  
After another five days, they began to fear that the neurobooster was not going to work. When she was alone with him, Typhani made contact with him, touching him, holding him, however she could, careful not to disturb anything, and she tried to send him as much energy as she could muster. At three weeks, they increased the concentration on the neurobooster, and waited . . .  
  
With her hands clasped behind her back, Daala paced the floor of the lounge as if it were the bridge of a Star Destroyer. She eventually stopped to face Typhani, and pounded her right fist into her left palm. "Never give up! Never gve up! Never give up! If I heard that once from him, I heard it a thousand times a day! I can't understand why he's giving up like this!" she said, frustrated.  
  
"I don't know, Daala. It's almost as if he doesn't have enough strength to reach some sort of threshold or something. If he could just get to a certain point of awareness, I think he'd be all right," she said.  
  
Daala stooped down in front of Typhani. "If you can get him to that threshold," she said as if making battle plans with her best commander, "I can get him to fight."  
  
"I have a few ideas," Typhani said, and reached into one of her bags for her mobile transponder. "You're frustrated, Daala. This sin't something you can ram full force or shoot turbolasers at, is it?"  
  
"No, it's not," she said as she resumed her seat next to Typhani. "But I suppose it's my most important battle yet. That means I have to win this one, no matter what. 'Can't lose the ship this time."  
  
"Daala, don't think like that," Typhani comforted her. "Adrian probably never told you about the battle of Zonama Sekot because he never had reason to. When he's better, and you're reviewing your battles, as I'm sure you will, ask him about that one. We had just gotten married, and it was a disaster! You should have seen him when he got back. He was despondent for days!" Typhani's connection went through, and she spoke to Raycellna. "I need for you to upload some recordings for me," she said, and began to reel off names of various family holotapes. That gave Daala and idea. Perhaps hearing some of his lecture series for the Academy would spark something.  
  
Daala entered the code for her residence on her own transponder, but there was no answer. "Where the hell is he?" she thought, annoyed. She tried again about an hour later, and then another. Nothing. More frustrated than concerned, she entered another code and stepped out into the empty corridor for some privacy. Stroma Veers, her second-in-command at the colony, promptly answered her comm. "Stroma, it's Daala," she began. "Have you seen Liegeus?"  
  
"Why, yes." Stroma answered. "I was by your house just a couple of days ago. He was packing and loading a lot of bags and boxes. I assumed he was going to join you. Is everything all right? How is your conference going?"  
  
Daala was silent for a moment. "Uh . . . listen, I'm actually on my way home. I should be there late tomorrow. Thanks, Stroma," she said, then switched off her transponder. In her gut, she knew what had happened. She went to find Typhani.  
  
"I'm going to have to run home," she said, "but I'll be right back. You calling for those holotapes gave me an idea. I'll bring the lecture series back with me."  
  
"Go ahead, it's all right," Typhani assured her.  
  
"I'll only be a couple of days, but if anything happens, if he gets worse . . ." Daala said.  
  
"I'll let you know," Typhani assured her, assuming that Daala needed to go home to attend to some important business concerning her colony.  
  
When Daala arrived home on Pedducis Chorios, her house was dark, and there was no sign of Liegeus. With some hesitation, she stepped into her living room and activated the lights. On the hall table lay two remotes to the house's keypads and a holocube. Daala rubbed her aching temples for a moment, and ran her hands through her hair. Her breath grew short as that deep burning in her chest became prevalent again. She set the holocube on the coffee table and sat down opposite it. Their relationship had not been good lately. The unbridled passion of their unexpected reunion had been all too brief, and their relationship had been on again, off again for several years now. True, she had missed his company, and his conversation, during her career with the Empire. When they were reunited after so long, she had looked forward to, as she had put it, having someone to talk to. But her experiences with the Empire, and with Adrian in particular, had done something to her, as if the switches on her brain had been permanently and irreversibly turned up several notches, such that she and Liegeus of late actually had very little in common. And, Liegeus had long since grown very, very weary of all the talk of Tarkin.  
  
With a sigh, Daala activated the holocube. A miniature Liegeus in hologram appeared inside the cube. He was looking down, and a moment passed before he began to speak. Finally, he looked up. "Daala, this isn't working, and I have to get on with my life," he began. "For years, I've told you and told you that I can't compete with a ghost. I won't compete with a ghost." He was silent for another moment, then continued, "I know that Typhani Tarkin came out to see you a couple of weeks ago, and that you've been on the comm with her too much ever since then. And what's the deal with that picture of her kids on your nightstand? I don't know for sure what the hell's going on, but I don't like it. I know you're with her, up to what I don't even want to speculate." He paused again, looked away, and shook his head. "Go back to the Tarkins, Daala. They're all you've ever talked about, ever cared about. You belong with them. And . . . I don't fit in the picture. Goodbye, Daala."  
  
She deactivated the cube and sat back, folding her hands across her lap and habitually squeezing them tightly together. She looked up at the ceiling, then out the window for a long moment. Yes, things had gotten out of hand with Adrian, most inappropriate, there was no doubt about that. But now she understood how and why it started, and, after meeting his two fine daughters, whose picture she was now proud to display, she could easily understand why he wanted more. She had long since come to realize that she felt much more admiration for Adrian than romantic love, and now she knew that what had happened between them years ago wasn't supposed to mean anything; they had simply been the unwitting victims of a well-intended mistake, isolation, and perhaps a few hormones. She didn't expect it to happen again, especially after meeting Typhani and coming to understand their relationship, watching her interact with him in ways that she couldn't even understand, yet she could easily perceive the bond between them.  
  
And, she realized, she already greatly admired Typhani as well, her courage, her compassion, her strength, her unconditional love for her husband, her devotion to her family and to the Empire, and she wished she had been able to know her before. Daala had begun to wonder if the Empire would have wanted so desperately for leadership if she and Typhani had linked up right after she had emerged from the Maw. She recalled fondly that once she thought that she and Tarkin could have ruled the Empire, and, considering Typhani's character, intelligence, and good standing with almost all Imperials, it might not have mattered which Tarkin. Typhani's lack of military experience had been the only thing keeping her from the helm, in fact. More Imperial leaders than would admit to it had lamented over what might have been if Typhani's father, Baron Nostremi Octovano of Phelarion, had lived just another five years, long enough for Typhani to get through the Academy. After all, her husband had been third in command of the Empire after Palpatine and Vader, and so the seat of leadership was rightfully hers anyway.  
  
Daala perceived strong resolve beginning to well up inside of her, a strength she had not felt since she stood in command on the bridge of her beloved but lost Gorgon before any Rebel ever set foot inside the Maw. "You're right," Daala said decisively to the holocube, and hurled it with force into the nearest wastebasket. Then she called Stroma again. "I'm closing up my house," she said. "A friend of mine is ill, and I'm going to stay with him and his family for awhile, probably several weeks," she explained, then gave Stroma some parting instructions and a means to reach her. To Stroma's last question, she answered, "No, Liegeus won't be back. It's over for good this time."  
  
Then, Daala got through to Typhani. "I'll be back day after tomorrow," she said. "I need to close up my house and take care of sime things. How is everything there?"  
  
"Still the same," Typhani said. "At least he hasn't regressed any."  
  
"That's good," Daala said in relief.  
  
Morgana, Lyjéa, and Lyscithea had also taken their turns at going home to check on aviaries, students, and children, but Typhani never left her husband's side. She recalled how, years ago, Adrian had been in the medcenter on Coruscant overnight for migraines. He did not like his surroundings or circumstances one bit, and he had told Typhani not to leave him alone in that place. She remembered her response, "I'll never leave you alone." Now she was keeping her promise.  
  
His first sensations had been like being under water and not being able to surface, not wanting to surface, floating in a daze of unfocused unawareness. He thought he had heard distant voices, as if calling to him from across the galaxy, but he hadn't been able to make them out, as yet unconcerned with his condition or location. Now, though, focus was coming, ever so slowly. Where was he supposed to be? What had he been doing? What was the last thing he remembered? But these early efforts would be too much for him, and he would drift back down again.  
  
Daala had just returned to Lumin when Nortia came in to give them an update. "We've increased the neurobooster again," she said, "and we're finally getting some results on the readouts. The only concern is that this dosage level may cause mild seizures. But that could be a good thing--a sign of the brain rapid-firing as it turns itself back on. We're fairly sure he's still too weak to move very much at this point, but just in case, we've put him in soft restraints so that he doesn't disengage his central line," Nortia explained.  
  
Daala and Typhani both shot each other concerned looks. "Wait a minute, you can't do that!" Daala told Nortia.  
  
"No, you can't restrain him, whatever you do," Typhani added.  
  
"Why, what's wrong?" Nortia asked.  
  
Daala and Typhani answered in unison, "Nightmares!"  
  
Typhani explained further, but also looked over at Daala at her realization that they had both come to the same conclusion. "He always used to have the worst nightmares about being tied down and not being able to move. Take those restraints off. We'll watch him instead."  
  
Nortia nodded in understanding and left the room as Daala and Typhani continued their conversation. "He had them with you, too?" Typhani asked.  
  
"Sometimes he'd wake up in just a--a frenzy, and not be able to go back to sleep. I used to be so afraid we'd get found out that way," Daala explained.  
  
"Oh, I know," Typhani acknowledged. "I sat up with him many a night after those dreams. I finally learned how to draw them away without waking him."  
  
"Any idea where they're coming from?" Daala asked.  
  
Typhani shook her head as she put some holovids back in their cases. "He doesn't know."  
  
"You know what's funny," Daala continued, "I've seen him do some pretty gruesome things to Rebels and insubordinates, but he never once ordered anybody tied up, down, or such that they couldn't move."  
  
"I can certainly understand why not," Typhani said, preparing to go back to him.  
  
Daala withdrew a holotape case from her bag. "Here, try this one first," she said, extending the recording of his now-famous "Rule by Fear" lecture.  
  
"Yes!" Typhani agreed. Then, she continued speculatively in the same vein as Daala's earlier comment about Rebels, holding the case up in the air. "You know, I've never understood the Rebels' objections to this. They hold this up as their prime example to make Adrian out to be some sort of monster. I just don't understand it. Would they rather have "Rule by Widespread and Relentless Use of Force?"  
  
"I know, I know," Daala agreed, hands in the air. "And I've seen it work in action, in the field. Make a few examples--granted, make them graphic and extreme--but making a few examples to keep others in line actually ends up saving lives, preserving order, and preventing widespread collateral damage in the long run!"  
  
"It's always been more humane than conventional warfare in my book," Typhani continued. "Look at Ghorman. Riots such as that never happened again. Yes, a few people got killed, but how many more would have died if that sort of protesting had been allowed to continue! And the Rebel Alliance used that incident as an excuse to begin hostilities against the Empire--look at all the carnage that has caused--is still causing--right downt he hall! They brought Alderaan on themselves. And in Adrian's absence, how many other worlds have been laid to waste since! Coruscant! Carida! Ithor! Sernpidal! If it weren't for the Rebels, Adrian would have an entire fleet of Death Star battle stations by now, and the Vong would have never come near this galaxy! Rebels! I'll never understand them!" she concluded vehemently, and left the room with the holotape.  
  
Daala smiled after Typhani. "That's our Empress!" she said.  
  
Typhani resumed her place next to her husband, and made sure the restraints were gone. Earlier that morning, they had also switched him from the ventilator to a pressurized oxygen system, and, so far, he seemed to be doing fine with it. "Surely you'll remember this one, Adrian," she said softly as she activated the holoplate reader on the side table.  
  
Those voices were calling to him again, but not so distant now. Rule by fear? Wait a minute, that was his idea! Rule what by fear? Yes, there was a war going on, wasn't there? Wasn't he involved with the war somehow? He couldn't think about that yet. He was also beginning to become aware of other sensations, though, of lying down, of feeling too weak to move, the pressure of the oxygen mask, and it seemed dark.  
  
Typhani deactivated the holoplate reader when the recording concluded. "You are such a good teacher, Adrian," she told him. "There are so many young people now who need your guidance. You have to come back to us, for their sake."  
  
Young people? He could hear that voice more clearly now. Weren't there some young people in his life? Now the pictures began to form in his mind--yes, he remembered, he had two daughters, ages eleven and thirteen, and a niece, nineteen--and he began to perceive sparse and blurry images of them, but they disappeared before they formed completely, and he drifted back again. Occasionally, he would show feeble signs of awareness, a slight sound, a subtle movement, and Typhani's hopes would leap to life, only to be dashed in disappointment.  
  
Daala continued to be impressed by Typhani's devotion, just the way she looked at Adrian, spoke to him, touched him. She had never either felt or witnessed a bond like that; there was something rare and sacred about it. And yet, she as well as anyone could understand how easily and powerfully one could become attracted and attached to him . . . She pushed the thought aside.  
  
A few days later, the medical droids started taking the oxygen away for brief periods. Typhani stayed put, progressing her way through the entire Carida lecture series. Daala would slip in occasionally, careful not to make her presence known. She had brought her laptop computer back with her, and Typhani noticed that she had been doing quite a bit of work on it in the lounge, making outlines and the like, prioritizing all the material she would need to share with her once and future mentor as he recovered.  
  
"You inspired so many people with these, Adrian," Typhani said as another recording concluded. To hear his voice strong and decisive again was a great comfort to her as well; it kept her going and kept up her resolve to make him whole again. With the oxygen mask away for awhile, she could make better contact with him, and so she leaned over and very gently took his face in her hands. "But recordings aren't enough anymore, not now. We need you. I need you, Adrian. I've loved you and missed you and held on for so long. I never gave up on you, and I never will, no matter what comes of this," she said reassuringly, and then she kissed him tenderly.  
  
She sat back down, very tired. She hadn't slept in a long time. She let the rail down, leaned forward, and rested her head on the pillow as close to him as she could get. "You've got a wonderful future in front of you if you can just gather the strength to reach for it," she continued, reaching down to grasp his hand again. "All of your dreams are about to come true."  
  
That voice again. That same, constant, steady, ever-present, soothing voice. And now he knew that touch as well. They were connected to someone-- yes, someone important--to the someone most dear to him. The image formed slowly, but clearly now, that tall, strong-willed, dark-eyed, Phelarian tower of strength that he had come to love and bonded to so inexorably decades ago, and now still . . . His voice was thin and weak, but it came.  
  
"Typhani?"  
  
She had been almost asleep. She fought to contain her elation so as not to startle him. "Yes, Adrian, I'm right here," she said softly and gently, reaching up to touch his face again. "Can you hear me now?" Her heart leapt again as he tried to turn his head a little in her direction.  
  
With this new awareness, other concerns began to flood back. Where was he? What happened? He realized that he had been injured somehow, severely so. He also remembered something about that war again and about being on a battle station, remembered being in control of it somehow, but still the details would not come. Only Typhani was real to him at that point.  
  
"What--" he began to ask.  
  
"You've been in a very bad shuttle accident, but you'll be all right now. We're at the Andromeda Center on Lumin."  
  
"Where are you? I can't . . . " he said, trying to locate her in the dark.  
  
She put a hand across the thick sleep shade. "It's all right, I'm right here. It's just a sleep shade. You've been out for awhile, and so they have to regulate the light to protect your vision," she explained gently.  
  
Then he remembered. "Lyjéa? Scythi?" he asked weakly.  
  
"They're fine. They're just a little worried about you," Typhani reassured him.  
  
For a moment, he seemed to be reaching out with his mind, struggling to recapture images and put names to them. "Morgana?"  
  
"She's here."  
  
That unsettled him. He knew he had to be grievously injured for Morgana to be there, for Vice Admiral Worrell to have given her leave in light of a war going on in the galaxy. Now the details began to come back to him. "Where? Where is she?"  
  
"I'll go get her. I'll be right back."  
  
Typhani rushed into the lounge, and was glad to see that Lyjéa had just returned from giving final exams on Eriadu. "He's awake! He's come back to us!" she announced, clasping her hands and smiling widely, now able to let her elation flow. "Morgana . . . " she said, and they went back down the hall together.  
  
Morgana hovered lovingly over her brother. "I'm here, Adrian," she said softly, barely holding back her tears. "You had us so worried! We almost lost you. You're going to be all right now, though."  
  
"The shuttle . . . I don't remember . . . "  
  
"That's all right. It's normal not to remember right away," Morgana reassured him.  
  
"Typhani?"  
  
She took his hand again, and her spirits lifted as he weakly tried to return her grasp. It would be awhile yet, she knew.  
  
"I feel so . . . disoriented . . . don't . . . don't let go . . . " Then he started to struggle against the cool, antiseptic-laden air in the room.  
  
"Here," Typhani said as she put the oxygen back on, "this will make it easier. I won't let go. I'll never let go of you again." 


	8. Out of Oblivion Into Chaos

**C****hapter 8:**

**Out of Oblivion Into Chaos**

For the next several days, Adrian drifted in and out of consciousness, mostly incoherent and disoriented, and he would nearly panic if he sensed that Typhani was not with him. To her, his limited awareness seemed to jump from subject to subject and around in time without transition, as if his mind were an abstract mosaic. They could only wait to know if the pieces would fall together to become cohesive and coherent again.

Not only was Adrian allergic to bacta, but he was also sensitive to many other chemicals, which made the issue of pain management difficult and often less than desirable. The situation those first few days reminded Typhani of the unexplained six-month bout of migraines and seizures he'd had about a year after they married. The personnel at the medcenter on Coruscant, where they had been living at the time, never identified the source of the problem. It had finally abated, but only after Typhani took him to their camp on Lake Phelarion and cut him off from all outside contact, to the point of even preparing all of their meals herself. She had always believed that he had been poisoned somehow, and that the effects still lingered in his present sensitivities. She knew how hard the next few months were going to be for him, perhaps for both of them.

As he slowly became a little stronger and more coherent, the medcenter staff started him on soft foods, broth, juice, gelatin, and the like. Typhani quickly began to spoil him by slipping him whipped cream and applesauce with cinnamon syrup in it. And then she began to break open his favorite wafers and scrape out the crème filling with a spoon. Lyjéa and Lyscithea brought the booty unnoticed under their cloaks. His own daughters! Smugglers! If he only knew!

But he didn't know, not much beyond immediate contact and the few people who tended to him. The first he learned to recognize, other than Typhani and Morgana, was Nortia. She seemed to be the most patient and nurturing, and he would cling to her if he could get hold, trying to keep track of her movements. Then he startled her late one night when she came in to check on him. 

"Nortia?"

She shot a positive glance at Typhani, who had turned and raised up on one elbow. "Yes, I'm right here," she answered with an indicative touch. "I'm just checking a few things."

"What . . . what happened to me? I can't move . . . "

"Your shuttle crashed, remember?"

"Oh, yes . . . "

"You were very sick at first, but you're doing much better now. You'll be able to move a little more in just a few days when your leg and back braces come off, after those broken bones have finished healing." He settled back as Typhani moved close and took his hand. 

"That's a good sign, that he knew me," Nortia commented.

"Yes. Let's hope for more of the same," Typhani added, looking down lovingly at him.

By the end of the fifth week, his memory was still very patchy, and it was still hard for him to focus on a single topic or remember where he was and why, but Typhani had the utmost patience for him. "You were in a very bad explosion, Adrian, on the battle station, remember?" she explained gently. She had finally told him the rest of it, but had not yet disclosed to him that his beloved Death Star was gone.

_But it was supposed to be impossible for a disaster of such magnitude to happen on the station. Bevel said so. Bevel would know what happened and why. _

"Where's Bevel," he asked thinly.

"He's at home right now," Typhani assured him.

"Home?" Adrian echoed, still fighting dizzy confusion.

"Yes," Typhani said. "He and Dwyll live in Port Tarkin now." She was starting to drop subtle hints, to ease him into the present as gently as possible.

_Bevel and Dwyll back together? So soon? And living on Phelarion? Then Bevel didn't go back--back to the lab. The lab! No one knew about the lab! How long had he been out? Away from the lab? _He experienced a sudden clarity at the realization. Not even Typhani knew about the Maw Installation. He didn't want her to know, but right now she seemed to be his only link to the outside.

"Bevel didn't go . . . he didn't mention a . . . special projects facility?" he asked weakly, beginning to panic a bit. 

Typhani knew it was time. "Do you mean something like a laboratory?" she asked gently.

"Yes. In the Outer Rim. Near Kessel," he told her, now having trouble catching his breath again. Typhani gave him back the oxygen mask.

"We've brought along a military advisor who will be able to help you with things like that," she said reassuringly. "I'll be right back. Just don't get all worked up. Everything is all right."

_But everything couldn't be all right. Even if he'd been down only a month or two, he knew, there would be problems in the Maw . . . And what military advisor? Who had Typhani gone to fetch? A few scattered names occurred to him--Bast, Motti, Yularen? No one could see him like this--this weak, this vulnerable . . ._

Typhani stepped quietly into the lounge. Daala lay curled up asleep on one of the sofas, facing its hack. Fortunately, it had been her turn to stay the night. Typhani sensed that she wasn't feeling well, although she couldn't quite pinpoint why. She bent over her and put a hand on her shoulder. "Daala, it's time," she said softly. "He's remembered the lab."

Daala sat up with a start. "Oh, no," she said. "Why couldn't this wait until he's stronger?"

"I know," Typhani shared her concern. "But somehow I think not knowing is actually worse for him. We just . . . we just have to follow our instincts." They walked back together toward his room, and Daala froze outside the door.

"Typhani, I can't do this! I can't tell him what I've done!" she said tightly.

Typhani took her hand. "Yes you can," she said softly and reassuringly. "I'll help you. Now you understand it may really unsettle him when he realizes that we know each other now and are both here. If he starts to panic, just back away a little and let me settle him down again." 

Daala finally persuaded her feet to move, and she and Typhani slipped back inside. Daala moved around to the opposite side of the bed as Typhani indicated, but she had glanced at the monitors, and signaled to Daala not to say anything yet. Adrian's stress level was significantly elevated.

"I'm back," Typhani assured him as she resumed her seat, "and I've brought someone I think you'll find very helpful, but you've got to calm down first, all right?"

That would not be easy to do, not knowing who was there. Typhani sensed that, and decided to leave the oxygen on. Then she looked up at Daala, who sat down in the chair on the other side of the bed. Her own breath was coming quick and shallow, that barely suppressible fire raging in her chest again, and her lips quivered. Like Typhani, she had both dreamed of and dreaded this reunion. She leaned over the rails a bit, pushing her hair back over her shoulders. Finally, she drew enough of a breath to speak. 

"Adrian," she said softly, "it's Daala."

Typhani kept an eye on the monitors. In his current state, it took the information a moment to register. _Typhani had brought Daala and they were both here with him? Then does Typhani know that things with Daala went far further than they were supposed to go? And Daala is not at the lab where she should be! Had Typhani told Daala about their other plans for her? No, things can't be this wrong, not this and the station, they can't be, they can't--_

As the stress indicator spiked sharply, Typhani instinctively grabbed his wrist and leaned close. "It's all right, Adrian. All you need to be concerned about right now is that we are both here for you. As I've told you, you've been out for a long time. Things aren't the same anymore," she said, giving him a little more reality.

_How long? Why wouldn't they tell him? _

Daala's strength was starting to return. "That's right," she said, "We're both here with you and we're both going to help you get through this. Now it's my turn to lecture you about never giving up, do you hear? The Empire needs you!" Typhani nodded at her reassuringly as if to say keep going in the same vein.

When the monitors indicated that he had finally calmed down a bit, Daala continued. "You're probably wondering why I'm not at the Installation. The Rebels found us out, eventually, but all of the information from the research is safe and intact. I have everything, and I will review it all with you when youre strong enough." 

_Eventually? When was eventually? _

Typhani thought he had settled down enough to take the oxygen away again for a little while. "You can't let all these machines do the work for you forever," she admonished him. "You'll end up like Darth."

"How long?" he asked. Of course, Typhani and Daala knew what he meant, and they both shot concerned looks at each other.

"Adrian, don't worry about that right now," Typhani comforted, hoping he would quickly fall back to sleep.

_End up like Darth? _"Where is Darth," he asked, a tinge of concern in his voice. Typhani realized that she had slipped, badly. Daala picked up then.

"He's not here," she told him. "You don't have to worry about him right now."

Adrian fought to gain more focus, to gather together the pieces of what had happened and develop a strategy of what to do next. "Daala, we . . . we need to get with Bevel . . . get a report from him on the explosion at the station--" He had done too much, and began struggling for air again. "Typhani--I . . . can't . . . breathe--"

"Yes you can," she said softly but sternly, pulling the oxygen mask back down tight with one hand and slipping the other reassuringly under his head. "You just have to stay calm enough to keep enough air in your lungs so they can heal." 

She thought he had drifted off to sleep when she took the mask away again, but the movement startled him back awake, and back into his concerns. "Daala, we need to report to the Emperor . . . " he began again. Typhani and Daala looked at each other, and nodded to each other as they made a silent agreement.

"No, you dont have to worry about that, either." Typhani told him. She took a deep breath, and they both grasped his hands. "Vader and Palpatine are both long gone. The war is over, and we need a new leader now. _You _are the Emperor now, Adrian." Typhani reached for the oxygen with her other hand, but he didn't panic this time. 

"It's true," Daala confirmed. "Well, that is, just as soon as you can get out of this bed for an official coronation. Youve done it. Youve outlasted them all! The Empire--it's yours now! All your plans, all your dreams, you've made it!"

Then the realization came. He thought Daala's voice sounded older, and different somehow. "It's been . . . years . . . hasn't it?" he asked.

Typhani leaned protectively close to him and eased a caring hand on the top of his head. "Yes, Adrian, it's been a very long time. You were injured very badly, and they couldn't do anything to help you back then. You've been in a prolonged carbonite encapsulation. Our daughters are grown women now. Lyjéa is a tenured full professor of technical communications at the Imperial University of Eriadu, and Scythi took over the mine from me two years ago." Daala instinctively rose to go call Lyjéa and Lyscithea and tell them to come. Typhani continued, "And, Scythi has some very important things to tell you, but I'll let her do that."

When she arrived, Lyscithea sat down in the chair next to her father and took his hand. "We're so glad to have you back!" she said, batting tears of joy from her eyelashes. "And I've got some very special news for you, like Mom said. Do your remember Kormath, sweet, shy, little Kormath?"

It took Adrian a moment, but then, yes, he did remember Bevel's little boy, the same age as Lyscithea. "You two used to play together," he remembered. 

"We still do," she said, smiling. "And you have three wonderful, beautiful, bright grandsons who absolutely cannot wait for their Grampa Adrian to come home! The oldest is named after you, and he's eight now. Little Bevel is six, and Taeodor is three. Kormath and I plan to try for a girl in another year or so."

"Oh, Scythi . . . " he began, then realized that someone had sat down on the other edge of the bed. "Full professor with tenure?" he asked, sensing Lyjéa's presence.

"Would you accept anything less from me?" she asked, smiling down at her father.

"No," he told her, some strength coming into his voice at that point. He had to know something else, though. "Did they ever find a way . . . "

She knew what her father meant. "No, I still can't see. I gave up trying years ago. It was taking too much time and effort away from other things I wanted and needed to do. My tenure clock . . . It was better that I just learned to live with it."

"Where is Rivoche?" he asked.

Typhani reached over to reassure him again. "She turned Rebel, Adrian. We haven't seen or heard from her in years, although now we have to perpetually watch our backs because of her."

"That doesn't surprise me. We did everything we could . . ." he said.

"It could have been worse," Lyscithea commented.

"Oh, yeah, it sure could have been!" Morgana agreed.

"What?" Adrian asked.

"Rivoche almost married Vastin Caglio!" Lyscithea sneered.

"Absolutely not! I would have never allowed that," Adrian insisted.

"Well, we tried to stay out of her life as much as possible, especially after she hit college. She was just so damned incorrigible!" Morgana told him. "Fortunately or not, her little band of Rebel friends showed up and rescued' her from Vastin just hours before her engagement party! I had worked for _weeks_ on that gala! I could have just strangled her! She's working for the Rebels' historical bureau now, another tech writer in the family."

Speaking of the Rebels . . . "The Rebels? You said the war is over?" Adrian asked.

"It is," Daala began to explain, "and the current situation is that they have their part of the galaxy and we have ours. We have parts of the Outer Rim and the Seswenna Sector, except for Coruscant, of course. Ardus Kaine took over for you, and came up with this wonderful idea called the Pentastar Alignment, but then he got himself killed. It's an awfully long story, and one that Gilad tells best. He wrote the peace treaty."

"Ardus always was hot-headed," Lyscithea commented.

"_Boy, if that isn't Darth Vader calling deep space black,_" Morgana thought.

"And the galaxy is split--with the Rebellion?" Adrian asked sharply.

"For the moment," Daala confirmed, but with a suggestion of impending change in her tone. "They call themselves the 'New Republic.'"

"Was this Gilad's doings?" he asked as angrily as he could at that point, then took a moment to catch his breath again.

"It was the only way to save what territory we had, Adrian. He's not you. He did the best he could. When that happened, though, that's when he, Paleb Viorska, and the others really got serious about finding a way to bring you back somehow," Typhani defended the Vice Admiral.

"What is Gilad doing now?" Adrian asked.

"He's basically been holding everything together for the past few years. But, he's getting too old, and he can't do it anymore. He never wanted to in the first place. This will be a days long discussion to bring you abreast of everything, and I really think we should wait until Gilad can be here, you know, to pass the proverbial torch," Daala explained. 

"Yes, I think you've had quite enough for now," Typhani cautioned him. "There's nothing you can do about it this very minute, except to rest and get better." With that, the others took their cue to leave. 

"Typhani?" he called out when he was sure the others were gone.

"I'm right here," she said softly as she sat back down close to him.

"How long, exactly? I have to know," he insisted.

"Are you sure you want to know right now?" she asked, taking his hand again.

He hesitated for a moment, then answered her. "Yes."

"It's been just a little over twenty-five years," she told him gently, and grasped his hand a bit more tightly.

"Oh, my . . . " 

"It's all right," she comforted.

"But you don't . . . you don't seem that different."

Sensing the question in his observation, she smiled down at him. "I'm not. I'm Phelarian, remember? Biologically, we're about the same age now." She leaned over him and raised his hands to her hair, her face, her breasts. "See? I'm still the same person."

"No," he said flatly. "Now I understand what it's like for Lyjéa."

Typhani got up momentarily and dimmed the lights as much as she could, yet still see. She returned to him, and carefully lifted the sleep shade. He opened his eyes for the first time in twenty-five years and looked up at her.

"Can you see me?" she asked with trepidation, gazing longingly and lovingly into his deep blue eyes, where she had always found acceptance, reassurance, and validation. She took his hands and leaned close to him again.

"Yes," he confirmed. Her image was blurry and lacked detail, but it was there. 

"Thank goodness!" she sighed, relieved. Although she had lavished a galaxy of kisses upon him over the past few weeks, she descended closer and their lips met for the first time in mutual full awareness.

She pushed her bed as close to his as she could get it, and at last lay down for the night. It was well after midnight. 

"Typhani?" he called again.

"Yes, what is it?" she asked as she turned toward him.

He hesitated a bit. "Am I . . . very terribly disfigured?"

She moved close to him again. "No, Adrian. Most of the injuries were internal, except for one very bad blow to the head, but your hair has covered that. You did catch a bit of shrapnel as well, but that's all healed now. You're going to be all right."

They both drifted off for awhile, but his slightest movement would awaken her.

"Are you asleep?" she asked.

"No. Is it official?" 

"What?" she asked, not following him.

"The Empire. Is it officially . . . mine?"

"The Council has indicated, according to Gilad, that you can start assuming duties whenever you feel ready."

"Is there really anything left?"

"There's enough left to need the guidance of a good Emperor."

"That's not what I asked you, Typhani. How many systems, approximately?"

"About a thousand, I think." The number was miniscule compared to what the Galactic Empire used to be. Yet another blow.

"Eriadu is one of them, no?"

"Oh, yes, of course. The Imperial capital is on Bastion now, though. It was part of Ardus' plan, and it works well, being so close to Muunilinst."

"What happened to them?"

"Who?"

"Darth and Cos?"

"They were both killed in action, about four years after your accident. Cos could transport himself, you know. He had a couple of clones left on Byss but . . . well, they didn't last long."

"And Gilad has held the helm ever since?"

"Oh, no, there have been others. Ysanne tried her hand at it for awhile, and, do you remember Thrawn of the Nuruodo clan? The alien who made Grand Admiral?"

"The Chiss? Yes, I think so. He and Cos got into it--some political disagreement, as I recall. Cos sent him to the Unknowns."

"He came back for awhile. Gilad worked with him, in fact. He was our best hope, with you incapacitated. His own bodyguard killed him. I can't remember why."

"What a terrible waste!"

"Yes, his was a very bad loss indeed."

"Anyone else?"

"Not of any consequence. We've had quite a time with a bunch of, as Daala puts it, ham-fisted, jumped-up, overstuffed warlords picking over the leavings of the Empire like so many maggots! She and Gilad killed a dozen of them with one swift stroke--wonderful escapade! They'd have destroyed each other and us all by now if they hadn't. But, of course, more just rose up in their place, mostly in the Core Worlds."

"We have territory there as well?"

"Not anymore."

"I see. It appears I have quite a bit of work ahead of me." The realization of being the new Emperor finally began to set in upon him as he drifted back to sleep. 

Typhani and Daala sat with him for most of the next afternoon, filling him in on some of the most important details, the startling identity of Darth Vader's two children, the Battle of Hoth, the Battle of Endor, the rise and fall of Thrawn, Daala's years in the Maw, the terrible loss of Carida, the warlords' infighting, the most un-Imperial antics of Roganda Ismaren and Moff Disra, the terms of the peace treaty, the current status of the New Republic, the Imperial Remnant's current territorial boundaries, and the Yuuzhan Vong invasion of Rebel territory. Adrian had already begun to think of galactic redomination, and he thought he had the perfect solution for that and the Vong invasion. "Where is the station now?" he asked Typhani and Daala. "Repairs were made, no?"

Typhani winced. "No."

He was silent for a moment, contemplative. "Well, then, we'll have to make them now. We can't have Rebels and extragalactic alien invaders overrunning us! Is it at Kuat, or back at Horuz?"

Typhani bit her lip, then very reluctantly continued. Better he should hear it from her than anyone else. "No, Adrian, you don't understand. The station is gone. It was destroyed in the battle that caused your injuries. Your shuttle barely got away. The damage from the explosion is what caused it to crash-land on Tallaan."

He shuddered, and Typhani slid an arm under his shoulders. "But how? Bevel said . . . he said the station was impregnable, that it couldn't be destroyed!"

"Proton torpedoes down the main reactor's thermal exhaust port," Typhani explained.

He knew the outcome. "A chain reaction . . . oh, no!"

"We tried again," Daala interceded. "There's one detail we didn't tell you about the Battle of Endor. The station that was destroyed there wasn't like Centerpoint or the _Eye of Palpatine_. It was a second Death Star. Bevel tried again, but the Rebels flew directly into the core while the new station was under construction. The design . . . the Empire scrapped it at that point, especially with Palpatine gone." 

He seemed to go limp on the inside. "All that work for naught . . . Wait! The prototype! We can fit out the superstructure!"

This time it was Daala who winced. "Adrian, I told you the Rebels found us out. They attacked the lab. Tol tried to get away in the prototype. He had all the scientists on board while I attacked the Rebels with the _Gorgon_, but something went wrong. He drove straight into one of the singularities."

"There's nothing left . . . What are we ever to do now, then?" he asked weakly.

"Gilad has some ideas, as do I. We have plenty of time. The Rebels don't know you're alive," Daala told him.

"What does it matter if I have nothing to fight with? From what you're telling me, what's left of the New Order has allowed everything to be destroyed or taken over by Rebels! I've come out of this only to face defeat?"

Daala and Typhani both fought off fear and shame. 

"Status report, Daala! What do we have?" Adrian insisted.

Typhani interjected. "What we have right now is a state of peace, a cease-fire, if you will, with the New Republic. As Daala said, that, undesirable as it is, at least gives us time to regroup. We aren't defeated, Adrian. We have a nation of our own. No, it's not the whole galaxy, but it consists of those systems that were most loyal to the New Order and most capable of sustaining it. Gilad saw to that."

"And we have the fleet," Daala added. She proceeded to outline for him all the resources she could think of. "The New Republic is a very shaky institution at best. We may not have to fight them again. The Rebellion may fall apart of its own accord, or the Vong may take care of the matter for us."

"And what if these Vong-aliens attack our territory?" Adrian asked pointedly.

"Gilad is very good at Vong extermination," Daala assured him.

"They've attacked us already?"

"Only on the border," Daala fabricated quickly. "Gilad and his forces helped drive them back into Rebel territory."

"Were you involved in that campaign?" he asked Daala.

She hesitated. "No. I--uh--I was . . . occupied elsewhere." She looked away, glad that he couldn't see her.

"Elsewhere?" he queried.

Daala began to wring her hands, so Typhani interceded. "Daala has had her plate quite full over the years, thanks to you and Gilad and others, but I think we need to take a break now. You mustn't get too very stressed."

"As long as everything is presently under control," he said, his tone tainted with warning.

"It is," Daala assured him. To her ultimate relief, he nodded in agreement, and settled down for a nap. With her involved, he had little doubt that the Empire's affairs were well in hand. 

Involved. Yes, he and Daala had been involved, hadn't they, he thought as he slipped back into a restful late afternoon slumber.

The next time he awoke and realized that he and Typhani were alone, there was another most important matter he had to clear up. Typhani and Daala seemed to get along so well that he began to wonder if they were both still in the dark about all that had transpired between the three of them. For his own good, he didn't want to sour their relationship, but he needed to know what they knew. So, he began at the beginning of their errors. "Did you tell Daala about our other plans for her?" he asked.

Typhani hesitated a moment. "Yes. I thought that was only fair, considering I was pulling her out of retirement to help you rebuild the Empire."

"And, how did she react?" he asked.

"Well, at first, she was angry, of course, but then she just wanted to know why we didn't simply ask her to help us. She said the whole thing could have been handled artificially, and then we wouldn't have had to risk our relationship and hurt her in the process. I'm afraid we were a bit too arrogant where she was concerned. Presumptuous' was the word she used, and, in hindsight, I think I must agree with her. 

"And yes, I know all about what happened behind closed doors at the Installation. From now on, we shall have to set limits on the amount of time we spend apart at any given instance, and take better care not to lose touch with one another. I explained to Daala that we had all hurt each other very badly, and that you and I had made a very terrible mistake, but that now we have to heal for our own well being, and for the good of the Empire." She stopped for a moment, then continued. "And, we will also need to make sure that Daala never feels like she is all alone in the universe ever again."

"She told you she felt that way?" Adrian asked, not believing that the Daala he knew would ever divulge such to anyone.

"No, but it's not hard to figure out. Before I risked visiting her, I did my research, of course. I learned, which I'm sure you already know, that she has only one name because she is an orphan. You know, she reminds me a lot of the little girl Palpatine adopted, that little Mara Jade. Do you remember her? She was the one we helped Palpatine test and before then we had her with us for the summer--remember, we had to empty out the safe at the mine offices and put a datachip in there that she had to take back to him if she got it open? I don't think you or either of them ever knew it, but I simplified the codes to make it a lot easier for her. I didn't want to see her cast out again. She's turned Rebel too, by the way, but at least Mara had an identity, knew she had parents who had cared about her, and knew that they had been killed in battle. 

"But Daala--to be abandoned, literally thrown away--a defenseless infant tossed into a garbage masher and left to die, growing up in a filthy orphanage and so many foster homes--and then the way she was treated on Carida . . . You know I can't blame you for trying to comfort her and give her confidence, to make her feel worthy of being cared for. I have a theory about her, you know, a womens intuition theory. I think that's what she actually wanted far more than rank or power or victory--for someone to simply acknowledge her strengths and validate her existence. I think all that tomboy bravado of hers was simply her way of saying I'm here, I deserve to be here, I am not a piece of garbage, and like any human being I deserve to be loved, wanted, and respected.' I know you, Adrian. I know that's what you were trying to do for her. But you got a little carried away, no? And then . . . " she trailed away.

"What?" he asked.

"I know that I should let her tell you this herself, but she's very much ashamed and afraid of what you'll think. She's had a really bad time of it, Adrian. You see, she wasn't very good in the field. She had a few successes--in fact, she knocked the everliving starlight out of Calamari again for you--but she also made a lot of mistakes and suffered an awful lot of setbacks. Her Destroyers are all gone, except for the _Gorgon_, and it is currently in drydock at the Kuat scrapyard--a carcass for parts. I don't know the full details, but she and Gilad were in another battle of some kind later, and she ended up losing another, larger Destroyer and nearly died from dehydration from floating in a lifepod for days on end until Gilad was able to pick her up. She resigned after that one. Gilad said it nearly broke his heart. And, that's when she and Stroma Veers rounded up as many Imperial supporters as they could find and started a colony on Pedducis Chorios. Later still, she nearly got herself killed during a run-in with Garn Bel Iblis--I still hate that old fart! And then after that, the Rebels almost hit her colony a few years ago, gunning for her, of course, but, thank goodness, Gilad found out in time and distracted them somehow. She's been hiding out there for the last half decade until I brought her here. I know you can't see her well enough yet, but she doesn't take care of herself--doesn't care about herself anymore. She looks ten years older than she really is--in fact, I had to double-check my information after I saw her for the first time. And this criminal she's been living with--he's such a nasty thing! Who knows what he's done to her! In so many ways, she's just so broken down and defeated--she's always referring to herself as a failure. I cracked through that a little bit when she showed me the data cells containing the core dump from the lab. I tried praising her for protecting the information, as she was assigned to do, and I got a little positive reaction out of her, but not nearly enough. 

"But, on the upside, she's a very independent woman, she certainly has a mind of her own and knows how and doesn't hesitate to use it, and she's a survivor. She's made her own way in a universe that has been so very cruel to her for far too long, and we were the cause of it all." She looked decisively down at her husband. "We have to make sure it never happens again."

"She wasn't ready yet. I hadn't finished teaching her half of what she needed to know," he said, inwardly cursing the Rebels over again for putting him out of commission.

"I know," Typhani said. "It wasn't your fault. And, at least you didn't abandon her. That's why she agreed to come here. She knows that now, but I sense that she felt that way for many years at the Installation." Then Typhani was quiet, contemplative, for a long moment. 

"What?" 

"Adrian, we can't have any more secrets between us like the Maw Installation. I know that you never thought anything like this would ever happen to you. Granted, the scientists and such there got quite a bit of valuable work done in the eleven years that ensued between your last departure and the arrival of the Rebels, but for everyone to be isolated that long because no one knew . . . Look at Daala. I tried to find her after the explosion, but when I couldn't, I assumed she'd been with you on the station and hadn't gotten out. What if she'd gotten pregnant on your last visit? Thank goodness, she didn't, but what if she had? Then what would she have done? Everyone would have known. Her command would have meant nothing. No one would have respected her anymore. Things would have fallen apart at the Installation within a matter of months. There has got to be at least one other person who knows about these clandestine projects of yours--or, I mean, even if you'd set up something on your computer and told me to access it only if something happened.' Or, given her some sealed instructions, if I'm not back in X amount of time . . . Things turned out all right this time, but what if there's a next? Youre not invincible, Adrian. I think you know that now," she admonished him.

"Typhani, it was far too dangerous. The girls were still so young," he explained.

"Then find someone expendable, or write a computer code that will launch automatically if you don't access it in a certain amount of time," she insisted.

"All right, are you going out for Empress or Chief of Staff?" he asked teasingly.

"Both," she told him firmly They both knew it was going to end up that way anyway, knew that it was going to take both of them--all of them. "I will _not _be some throne-sitting, inactive, creme-filled little waif. If anything, we can show those filthy Rebels what real leadership is! I know Daala told you a little bit about Darth's daughter being their on-again, off-again, so-called leader now. Well, that drunk she's married to is an utter disgrace--a low-bred, backwater, Corellian dimstarbilly who communes with Wookiees on the side, and he smells just like one! Daala's met him! She knows! We will do better! In fact, did Daala tell you, some thirty systems have come back to the Empire since our stabilization a couple of years ago, and once we have centralized strength in leadership again, and when it's announced _who_ the leader is . . . . You've been very sorely missed, Adrian. I don't think you realize how much so yet. There hasn't been time enough for us to tell you everything, but I think, between ships and superlaser bastions and spaceports and high schools and such, there are now more things in this galaxy named for you than for Palpatine. Seriously! Weve just got to get you out of this bed now," she assured him.

He could tell right away that his wife had already grown intensely attached to Daala. He knew how easily that could happen. And now that all the dirty little secrets were out, she wouldn't have to fend for herself alone anymore. 

He still wondered about others, though, and about one of his own being alone.

"How long have Kormath and Scythi been married?" 

"Oh, goodness, you know, their fifteenth anniversary is coming up In a few months! We'll have to plan something special for that one," she told him.

"And Lyjéa?" he asked. "She's still alone, isn't she?" 

Typhani hesitated. She knew that her husband would not be repulsed by her answer, but that he would likely be a little taken aback. "No, she's not alone," Typhani said.

"What?" he asked.

"Just like Raine . . . " Typhani told him.

Somehow he had always known it would turn out that way. "What's her name?" 

"Sabine," Typhani answered. "Sabine Rhiannon Northstar. She's a reactor engineer, also visually impaired, although she has some residual vision. They've been together for over twelve years now, very happily, in fact." 

He felt at that point that he had to know about one more person, and he braced himself emotionally in the event his wife would tell him that his best friend was gone. "Where's Raith?"

Again, Typhani hesitated. "He's . . . in a retirement home. He had a stroke a few years back--a bad one. Kormath, Scythi, and I wanted to bring him to Phelarion and take care of him ourselves, but the doctors convinced us otherwise. He's very difficult to handle; apparently, he gets violent sometimes. The last time I was there--it was a couple of months ago--he didn't recognize me. But you know something, he may still remember you. He seems to remember more from the distant past than the recent. Youll have to go see him when youre able."

"Arent any of our friends left intact?" he asked sadly.

"Oh, yes," Typhani smiled. "Rodin is quite well, more fastidious than ever!" She had already told him that her first cousin and his second-in-command, Admiral Raolf Motti, had gone in the first Death Star incident, although she hadn't told him exactly how it had happened. "And, let's see, there's Ohran, Nasdra, Elizie, and Shenna, after I nursed them all back to health and sanity. Shenna and Irek are engaged now, actually, believe it or not, and they assure me that Roganda is _not _invited to the wedding. She moved to Tallaan with a new alien boyfriend, a Zabrak, I think. Ohran is living and working on Yaga Minor, and the Magrodys live on Eriadu now. And, there's Drost and Marielle and their brood, _eigit_ grandchildren now, and, well, I thought maybe you'd like to know, Theala is also still kicking about."

"That's quite all right," he assured her bemusedly at her last comment. "About Roganda, what exactly did you do to her?"

"I made her harvest moss for a season."

"How very perfect!"

"If you'd only seen that poor boy suffer. It reminded me of Darth after his last fight with Kenobi," she recalled, as she remembered nursing sixteen-year-old Irek Ismaren after the cybernetic implant in his brain that supposedly enabled him to influence machines went terribly wrong and spawned a cluster of malignant tumors that nearly cost the recalcitrant lad his young life.

By the beginning of the sixth week, Adrian could have the sleep shade off at night and in very low light, but everything was still very blurry. And then, the paybacks began for all the Rebels and insubordinates he had ever tortured--physical therapy. Of course, they'd been working with him a little since the very beginning, but now that most of the broken bones had healed, it was up and out of the bed every day and into warm-up suits and athletic shoes and downstairs for daily dealings with what, after three or four days, Adrian became convinced were Rebel infiltrators. 

They stopped the neurobooster at sixty days, but continued the cell regenerator because, despite their efforts, his strength simply was not returning as it should have. He had wanted to get back on a schedule. He had been on a schedule all of his life and craved the structure. He and Daala had planned to begin spending each afternoon in debriefing, with Gilad coming in a couple of days a week, but thus far he was coming back from physical therapy exhausted, if not upset and distressed, and so only a nap, and a very long one at that, would do.

Because he would nap in the afternoon, he would often not sleep at night. That gave him time to reflect, think, and plan. Even though he and Typhani had discussed Daala's difficulties, they had not yet explored the impact of their ill-fated actions on their own relationship. Adrian wondered how it had all come out.

"Why in the tabvids, of course," his wife told him as if he should know. "One of Daala's crew leaked it all. One of the guards, I think."

"I knew I should have executed those guards!" Adrian fumed, remembering the two guards who had unwittingly observed him sneaking into the Admiral's quarters aboard the _Gorgon_ in the middle of the night. He'd only spotted them out of the corner of his eye, never quite sure if they had seen him or not. "How did you know--know what actually happened, that it went too far?" he asked with a faint stirring of shame and guilt that for him, although faint, was monumental. 

She laughed slightly at him. "Adrian, I'd known you for thirty years! I could tell. No matter how hard you tried to hide it, I could tell. But why? What caused it? We'd clearly laid out how we would proceed with her. Whatever caused you to overstep our plans? I know it wasn't the act itself. I remember those nights after you'd get back from the lab--all she did was starve you for me. So what was it? What were you not getting at home?" She wanted to make sure he got plenty of it in the future.

He lay silently for a long time, contemplative. She gave him the time he needed to provide her with an answer as near adequate as one could be for such behavior. "This . . . will sound very foolish," he finally began, "but I think it happened because she needed me, and, well, perhaps that's what I was missing--for someone to need me. It was always very strange to me, that the harsh and robust military officer she was by day would melt in her sleep by night. Always afterwards, well, it was as if she couldn't get close enough to me. I don't think she was even aware that she was doing it. But now many of the things you've told me about her make sense."

"Aaahhh. So it's all my fault for not being weak and vulnerable," she teased.

"No, Typhani. You know that your strength has always been attractive to me," he reassured her.

"But maybe you find the need for protection also attractive in that way. Perhaps that struck some sort of balance in you for your more destructive attributes," she pointed out.

"Yes, perhaps, but . . . I know it doesn't excuse what happened. I . . . I can't say I would have blamed you had you chosen not to be here." But the far deeper chemistry of their own bond had provided for that, and it pulled hard at Typhani's heart as she descended back onto the bed next to him.

"No," she insisted, "I could be nowhere else. You know that. I just knew that there had to be some underlying reason, but whatever it was, I forgave you for it years ago. After all, we were the ones who set ourselves up for this. We couldn't be happy with what we had--two wonderful daughters--and they weren't enough. We deserve our pain. But I keep thinking, what we did to her, is it really any better than what Roganda did to Irek? "

"No. No, it's not. I would have to say it's worse. One series of savage acts that I actually never intended."

"You . . . you never hurt her, forced her?"

"Oh, no, certainly not! After the first couple of times, she started coming after me. Why? Did she say something?"

"She thought, for a moment, that she was 'just an incubator,' as she put it."

"No. In the secrecy surrounding the lab, she was my student, my protégé, my confidante, although I certainly violated that. But I never thought of her as an incubator. She was precious to us. She could give us what we wanted yet couldn't provide for ourselves. It all seems so twisted now. I can lie here and say with utmost confidence that I would have never harmed her, or allowed harm to come to her, but in the process of things, that's exactly what I did. I couldn't blame her for not being here, either. Whatever did you tell her to get her to come?"

"I impressed upon her the need, for the good of the Empire. But I can't help but think she still has feelings for you. What are we going to do if she does? How will you handle her?" she asked pointedly, definitely putting her adulterous husband on the spot.

"She will obey my command. I can't think that she would, knowing what we did to her, but if she does instigate something, well, at that point, then, perhaps it would be well if we both sit her down and have a talk with her, and impress upon her that if she wants to be close to one of us, then she will have to be close to both of us, and not in any sort of intimate way."

Typhani knew there would very likely be close moments between them in the future, that she couldn't be with Adrian all the time. And after what they'd done to Daala, both directly and indirectly, she felt she could accept _close_, but certainly not _intimate_.

Typhani had just gotten far more than many slighted spouses ever hope to get--an honest answer for the transgression. She lay awake that night as well, questioning herself. Could she, perhaps, be a little more vulnerable, could she need him more now? She silently wished he could have seen her after Yavin, after the Conclave (especially after the Conclave), after Endor . . . But he hadn't been there for her to cause him concern, so she found it easier and more acceptable to let go of her guard when she simply did not have the strength to hold it up. 

Some of their closest moments, she recalled, had occurred when she collapsed into his arms at word of her father's sudden and unexpected death, and later during the days after her ancestral home on Phelarion had burned, when the authorities found a thirty-year-old skeleton entombed in the wall behind the main stairs. Then she had truly needed him, and again after the repeated loss of child after child, especially after her own very close scrape with death after Lyscithea's birth, and again after the hovercar accident/assassination attempt she'd been in on Eriadu when the girls were young and had fortunately not been with her. Even in those instances, though, she had ultimately been the one to assure him that she would be all right, so that he would not worry about her, so that he could continue his duties and the pursuit of his ambitions unburdened by concern. And that, she reflected, always seemed to be the end of the most intense intimacy. Could she need him, allow him to protect her without a crisis? In so many instances, she had protected him, if from nothing more than the distraction of her own needs. After the past quarter century, though, she knew how much she needed him. Indeed, he would never again want for the role of her protector. But would she be the only one who needed his protection? The next few months would tell.

By the middle of the ninth week, Adrian had gained enough upper body strength only to begin learning to work on a mobile computer again, with Daala's instruction and assistance, as well as screen enlargement software until his vision finished clearing up. He could sustain this activity only for very limited amounts of time, though. Fortunately, he had not been paralyzed, thanks to whomever strapped him so securely into the shuttle, but his strength simply would not last; even a datapad was a challenge. He still could not even sit up without support yet, and if they got him up too quickly he would almost black out from extreme dizziness. Too much sudden activity of any kind, and he would not be able to catch his breath again and have to be put back on the oxygen. Standing and walking were distant, and possibly unrealistic, dreams. 

Although still quite slow by his own standards, his mind was light years ahead of his body. Considering what he was finding out about the utter chaos that had transpired in the galaxy, in the Empire, after the Battle of Endor, and the inexorably slow pace at which he was being able to assimilate everything, he began to face the possibility that he was going to have to make a decision, as Lyjéa had warned, a choice between physical and mental capacities.

At ten weeks, he finally reached what they determined to be a saturation level of the cell regenerator, and so it was withdrawn as well, along with its rather cumbersome monitoring equipment and very uncomfortable central line. Typhani had waited so patiently and so anxiously for that moment, when the last technological tethers were taken away. Adrian had gone straight to sleep that evening in utter relief, and so Typhani carefully moved him to one side of the bed, dropped her robe over the back of the chair, and, fighting back tears of boundless joy, slipped gently into the bed next to him. 

He stirred despite her best efforts not to wake him, and reached out for her when he realized where she was. She helped him turn to face her, and for a long time, they just stared deeply into each other's souls. Then Typhani reached over to touch him intimately. "Do you have any sensation?" she asked softly. 

"Yes, a little," he answered as she reached up to loosen her hair and began to unbutton the front of her nightgown. No, they weren't home yet, not in their bed, that big, soft, wonderful, overstuffed sanctuary of warmth piled high with their own pillows, blankets, throws, and comforters, and it would be awhile yet before Adrian would be strong enough for them to be fully intimate again, but this would do for now.

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	9. The Way Home

**Chapter 9:**

**The Way Home**

The physical therapy droid finally relented, and allowed Adrian a few moments of rest. Already exhausted with sharp pains thrashing throughout all four limbs and his lower back, he though back to Carida, and before that to Eriadu, about how his governesses could never keep him in the house, how no adverse adventure ever seemed to phase him, despite such a lean build and only mediocre athletic ability. At the Academy, training exercises that drove some of the other men completely out of the military had struck him merely as exhilarating and invigorating--even the dreaded cold-weather survival training that commonly resulted in a few deaths. He loved watching the others fail. Rarely did he find himself physically stronger than either companion or opponent, but he had been so much smarter and keenly resourceful. As such, he "worked smarter than harder," as the saying goes, often avoiding the worst of the physical circumstances and "traps" set up by the instructors through quick yet careful strategy and sometimes manipulation. And so a master tactician he became.

But this current experience was different, something he could not avoid or manipulate, something that no amount of tactical intelligence could circumvent, and something that he did not at all find enjoyable--the devastating effects of his massive injuries and protracted carbonite encapsulation. He would have found his present circumstances unthinkable at any point in the life he knew before Yavin--to be on the floor, on an exercise mat, completely unable to get up with his broken bones, stiffened joints, and weakened muscles, and totally dependent upon others for his every need. He found the dependence and the lack of control over his own body and activities utterly contemptuous, and this only served to elevate his already high stress levels. 

And then there was the pain. Pain was something he inflicted on others; his duty was to inflict pain--and fear--on whomever Emperor Palpatine decreed, and quite often on whomever he pleased. Now the other edge of that proverbial knife had been turned sharply on him by one Rebel farm boy and two proton torpedoes--or perhaps his own lapse in judgment.

The droid approached again. "_I can't do this, but neither can I let them know_," Adrian thought as the masochistic metal monster moved menacingly toward him. Now he knew what his prisoners must have felt like at the approach of an interrogation droid. The purpose had been different, of course, but the pain was largely the same.

It wasn't working. No matter how many exercises he tried to do, no matter how far he tried to push himself--to invoke that spirit he once felt on Carida--the physical therapy was doing him no good. The injuries had been too severe, and the encapsulation too long to offer a recovery speedy enough for him to accept the reins of the Empire in a timely fashion. Nor did the prospect for long-term substantial orthopedic recovery look good. Still, he reasoned with himself, he was a military man from a long-respected military family who bore their military mishaps with strength and courage. So, to keep up appearances, he stoically struggled through the daily regimen for a while longer. 

More and more they demanded, every day. Longer durations on the routines. Heavier weights strapped to his arms and legs. More tension on the exercise equipment. Then the therapy droids attempted to get him to stand. His spine seemed to turn into a lightsaber, and he felt what must have been blaster bolts in his hips and knees. The droids overestimated him, and pulled away too soon. His long-unused muscles simply could not hold him, and he fell. With that, his guard finally fell as well.

No more.

Typhani put down her magvid reader in surprise when the door to their room opened an hour early. Tierra accompanied Adrian, and the droids had placed him on a gurney instead of in a hoverchair.

"What happened?" Typhani asked in concern as she rose to go to him. When the medic droids transferred him into bed, he drew up into a ball, and into himself.

"It's been getting worse, as I told you the other day, but he had a really bad time of it today. He fell from a near-standing position, but he hit the mat, so it didn't hurt him. He got pretty upset, though, so they called me and we decided that he'd had enough for today," Tierra explained as she and Typhani pulled the covers over him. One of the medic droids moved to Adrian and touched the side of his neck with an infuser containing a large ampoule of analgesic mixed with sedative. Typhani only nodded to Tierra as she left the room.

"Adrian, are you all right?" she asked as she sat down next to him. He pressed against her as she reached over to rub his back reassuringly, and she realized that he was trembling. She'd known him to tremble from anger and frustration before, but never from fear and pain. But things were different now. "What is it?"

He made several false-starts to answer her. "It's not . . . I can't stand the . . . They won't . . . " She understood. "Now I know what it's like . . . to be tortured. I can't let them know, though! I can't let anyone perceive me as . . ." She finished his thought in her mind. Weak. Vulnerable. A failure. Broken. "But I can't go on like this either."

Typhani realized then that he seemed closer to actual tears than he had been since the death of his father. He had never completely broken down, though, not even then, although she wished he would. She thought it would be good for him, even just once, to let out all of the fear, pain, frustration, and grief that he had faced since emerging from the carbonite. She would hold him, cradle him, hide him, and no one would know.

But no. He forced a facade of quick recovery and resolve over the fall, and somehow managed to put up a strong front until the doctors finally figured it out for themselves and approached him about the matter. Fortunately for Adrian, it didn't take them too very much longer.

On the day that began the twelfth week, Typhani raised her head at the awareness of bright morning daylight, and realized that no one had come in to wake them and to help her get Adrian ready to go down to therapy. "I wonder where Tierra and the droids are," she said as she sat up. "We're going to be late getting you downstairs today."

"I'm not going," he said quietly.

"What?" Typhani asked, surprised, and she sat back down next to him.

"Physical therapy isn't working for me, Typhani," he told her. "They told me yesterday. It's . . . far too uncomfortable anyway, especially for a regimen that offers no gain. And, it's taking too much of my strength away from where it is most needed. They said I may make some modest improvements over the long run, but for the immediate future, I shall have to learn to use a mobility assistance droid and a hoverscooter."

She had thought he seemed too quiet last night. But, they were both quite thankful that the cell regeneration technology had succeeded in repairing all of his internal organ systems and such. The formula was apparently less effective, though, for orthopedic musculoskelital strength recovery, but perhaps there would be something in the future. Still, she realized, looking down at him as she attempted to digest what he had just told her, he must be devastated, although less so than if circumstances had been reversed. She knew he would much prefer his mental capacities over the physical if the choice had to be made.

She lay back down and moved very close to him. "It'll be all right," she said softly. "We'll make do. Bevel will be able to help you. He has to use a hoverscooter now, too." And, she thought, Dwyll would have to teach her how to care for a restless, active-minded invalid. 

"Speaking of Bevel, we need to go home, Typhani, where we can work on putting the Empire back together again. I need to see that core dump from the lab. And . . . I just need to be home," he said weakly. "I don't like this place."

"I know," she comforted, slipping her arms around him.

They spent the next two days in occupational therapy trying out various hoverscooters and being fitted for the one that worked best for him. And, although a mobility assist droid would be fine for a backup system, everyone in OT could tell right away that Typhani, and that other tall, redheaded lady who came in for brief periods and whom they thought might be one of their daughters, would be the primary assistors. They had to learn how to help him around without hurting him or themselves. Daala in particular had to mind her back, although she had said nothing to anyone about the injury.

That accomplished, the medcenter staff began to look at Adrian's readiness for space travel. The trip home to Phelarion would take several hours, but, as long as he was quiet and the pilot took extra precautions to ensure a smooth transition into and out of hyperspace, he should be all right. So, at the end of the twelfth week, they began making plans to go home. Morgana would stay on Lumin with him for a few more days at the Andromeda Center, days devoted mostly to strength-building activities, while Typhani, Daala, and the girls made ready on Phelarion. Now that Typhani knew that Adrian was going to be all right, she could at last bring herself to let go briefly, although leaving him for that first time was, of course, quite difficult for her. Still, there were plans and arrangements only she could make. 

When they landed, Typhani and Lyscithea had to tend to some business at the mine's distribution center in Port Tarkin. When they were alone, Lyscithea asked her mother, "Daala doesn't smoke, does she?"

"No, I don't think so. Why?" Typhani asked.

"She always has the worst cough when she wakes up in the morning, and I know how you are about people smoking in the house," Lyscithea explained. They said nothing further about it, but Typhani tucked the knowledge away should it be needed later.

Daala and Lyjéa had gone ahead to the house. "Oh, what a gorgeous dragon fountain!" Daala commented as they approached the main house. Lyjéa smiled over at her. 

"There are four of them," she said. "They were gifts to my grandfather many years ago, and he called them his Gatekeepers.' I think you'll recognize them. The larger one in the front of the house is called Gorgon, and Basilisk, Manticore, and Hydra are at the points of the directions around the house."

Daala was delighted. "So that's where the names of my ships came from! Gatekeepers indeed!"

"And you were the Guardian of the Gatekeepers!"

"Yes, I suppose I was. Some guardian . . . " She sighed, and sought to change the subject quickly. "So this is your _mother's _estate?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, and the company as well," Lyjéa told her. "She had all of this in her own right before she ever met my father." At that, Daala gained a deeper understanding of Adrian's acceptance and open-mindedness, if not attraction, toward competent, independent women, something Palpatine certainly lacked. 

"I was going to ask you something," Daala continued, "but with everything that has been going on, I never got to it. What's the history between your Aunt Morgana and Admiral Pellaeon?"

"Oh, you don't know?" Lyjéa asked, surprised. "She saved his neck once, in battle. It was back during the Clone Wars. She was a Captain. You know, if she could have just laid down the liquor, she could easily have been a prehistoric Daala!"

"No!" Daala exclaimed, surprised.

"I thought you knew. You two really have a lot in common. You should get to know each other better," Lyjéa suggested. At last they reached the house, and Lyjéa seemed excited to be there. 

Inside, Daala marveled at the beautiful ivory and white décor, high cove ceilings, and polished marble floors. "Your mom has really good taste," she commented to Lyjéa.

"I'm glad you think so," Lyjéa said, as if something was up. 

Daala had always wondered what it would have been like to go home with Adrian. Of course, she had heard other staff members and military personnel who had attended official events speak of the Tarkins' beautiful homes on Eriadu and Phelarion, and of the stately and indomitable Lady Tarkin. Daala had never once even remotely entertained the fantasy that Adrian would leave Typhani for her, although she had once wondered fleetingly what might transpire if something unfortunate happened to Typhani. Daala had shrunk from that speculation as well, sensing somehow that Typhani was actually the stronger of the two, and that Adrian would never be able to survive her for long.

Lyjéa showed Daala around the lower floor of the house and introduced her to Raycellna and some of the other staff until her mother and sister caught up with them. The music room's sophistication surprised Daala, certainly not "regulation" in Imperial terms. But, she surmised, regulations had never applied to the Tarkins. "This is interesting," she commented to Lyjéa, "Who plays all these keyboards?"

"We all do. We'll show you how if you like," Lyjéa said congenially.

When Typhani and Lyscithea arrived, they all headed upstairs, ascending the central marble staircase with its white metal railings. "What are we going to do about the stairs?" Daala asked.

"Oh, I forgot to show you. There's a lift off the kitchen," Lyjéa explained.

Upstairs, Lyjéa and Lyscithea went to their respective rooms to investigate the wonderful new things that they knew would be on their beds, as it was their mother's custom to make sure their beds were well endowed upon special occasions, which was just about any occasion. One standing joke about Typhani was that she could boost the entire Imperial economy by a couple of points with nothing but a laptop computer, and, as one of if not the wealthiest women in the galaxy, she had the funds to do it plus some. 

Typhani put an arm around Daala's shoulders and led her on down the hall, past two of the guest rooms and her daughters rooms, to the second door from the end of the upstairs main hall. "Here we are," she said, and opened the door just as one of the servants came up behind them with Daala's dingy military-style duffle bag with her drab clothes wadded inside it. 

The room looked like a department store, the plush, queen-sized bed piled high, the closet doors open to reveal racks and shelves of wonderful new things with the protective plastic bags still over them. Daala stood frozen, a little embarrassed, a little elated, and a little uneasy. "Come on," Typhani urged her, and led her into her room. "This one's yours, see?" she said, holding up another of those wonderful Phelarian faux fur throws, this one with emerald green lining with gold flecks in it. Daala seemed reluctant to reach for it, and so Typhani cast it around her shoulders. "When I first met Adrian," she said, "he had known nothing but the military all of his life as well. I had to get him used to having warm, soft things around him." Daala finally took the corners of the throw and pulled it tightly around her. 

"Thank you, Typhani, but all this--I--um--" Daala began without knowing how to finish. She simply was not used to people being kind to her.

"You went for over eleven years without anything new at all, didn't you?" Typhani asked. Daala just nodded. "Well, we've got some lost time to make up then, don't we? Listen, I have to go take care of some things. Why don't you go exploring, and get settled in." Typhani closed the door on her way out.

Daala did settle, into the large, plush wing chair next to her bed. She kicked her shoes off and put her feet up on the ottoman. She sank back, pulling her throw over her lap. She had always liked unupholstered furniture because she felt that it kept her strong and alert. She realized that she had needed something artificial and outside of herself to keep her strength up, and that she had done it for too long. She began to stroke the soft faux fur side of her throw, and also the smooth, satin lining, two wonderful sensations in one. And, she realized, the deep cushion of the chair nourished her weary and wounded spirit. She had always like the processed air and metallic smell of good Imperial ships for the same reasons that she had liked unupholstered furniture, but now she noticed the faint floral scent rising from the potpourri bowl on the night table. The experience was far different from what she was used to, but good . . . so very good. For perhaps the first time since leaving the Maw, Daala felt safe, relieved, and in a place where she felt centered. As she put her head back into the soft cushion of the chair, Liegeus' words echoed in her ears, _"Go back to the Tarkins, Daala. You belong with them." _

Typhani had just finished returning some comm and holonet messages when Kormath arrived with the boys. "Gramma!" they shouted, running to her with open arms, having not seen their grandmother in weeks--something they were certainly not accustomed to. Lyscithea came downstairs then, and the adults asked the boys to come sit down with them. 

"Come on, boys, and settle down now. Gramma Typhani has something very important to tell you," Kormath admonished his sons. Although Lyscithea had alerted her father that the boys couldn't wait to see him, they had actually not told the children yet, waiting until they were sure their grandfather was out of the proverbial asteroid field and indeed coming home. For their own protection, the boys had been told over the years that their grandfather had died in a shuttle accident. The adults knew that the children, Bevel and Taeodor in particular, would not understand carbonite encapsulation, so Typhani sought to explain the forthcoming events in terms they could understand. Taeodor walked over to sit in his grandmother's lap as she began.

"I have some wonderful news for you, boys. Do you remember what happened to Grampa Adrian?" she asked, trying to make them interactive participants in the discussion. 

"Yeah, sure." Wilhuff said, "You and Mom said he got killed in a shuttle crash when Mom was eleven."

"Well, as it turns out, he didn't get killed in the shuttle after all. He's just been in the medcenter for a very long time. Hes gotten better now," Typhani continued, drawing her grandsons close, "and he's coming home soon."

"Aw, cool!" Wilhuff exclaimed.

"Awesome!" Bevel agreed.

"When?" Wilhuff asked eagerly.

"In just a few days," Typhani said.

Of course, Taeodor was still too young to fully understand, but he sensed that something good was about to happen to him and his brothers. 

Just then, Daala came down, and Lyscithea introduced her to her family, "Boys, this is Admiral Daala, and she works with Grampa Adrian."

"Oh, wow, a real Admiral! Just like Uncle Gilad?" Wilhuff asked.

"Yes, just like him," Daala confirmed. "You, um, don't notice anything different, do you?"

"Huh?" Wilhuff asked.

"Well, I'm a girl," Daala said, baiting the child.

"So what?" Wilhuff said. "Mom's a girl, and she runs a big company." he continued, and went into the playroom to join his brothers.

"Lyscithea, I like the way you raise your kids," Daala complimented as the adults went into the family dining room for dinner. After dinner, they proceeded into Adrian's study, to prepare it for his return. One of the few rooms with darker décor in the house, it was done in the typical Imperial black and gray scheme with red accents. Typhani had sealed the room shortly after the Battle of Yavin, just after Ardus Kaine had visited to retrieve what he needed, but then she re-opened it some years later, using it as a place to reflect and nurture her bond with her husband. The staff had already removed the tarps and drapes from everything, cleaned the furniture, and vacuumed the floor. Of course, like any unused room, a few storage items had accumulated in there, and so Typhani called for them to be taken to the basement.

"Mom, didn't you say this audio system doesn't work anymore?" Lyscithea asked, preparing to clean out a cabinet. 

"Yes, something's wrong with it. Kormath, would you mind taking a look?" Typhani asked. Lyscithea and Kormath both tinkered with the stereo system, trying to make it work again, and Kormath figured out that it had simply lost its programming, probably from non-use. 

"Well, Scythi, reprogram it, then." Typhani said.

"I don't know how. We were never allowed to touch it, remember?' she said.

"Who set it up?" Kormath asked.

Typhani and Lyscithea answered in unison, "Ackbar!" They both stopped to look at each other then.

"Mom, do you think he'll come see us," Lyscithea asked.

"I hope so," Typhani said, with a soft smile of fond memories.

Lyscithea found the instruction guide for the audio system as staff members removed the old, outdated computers and replaced them with new terminals that Daala had ordered. She then took over at the computer station, entering codes and bringing up the systems, transferring files from her laptop and downloading more from Bastion. Typhani rearranged the things on the shelves, moving the more important items to the lower shelves and putting the obviously outdated material and the knick-knacks on the upper shelves. They finished by rearranging the furniture a bit, with Kormath's input on what his father's scooter would clear.

That done, Lyscithea and Kormath left with their children as Typhani, Lyjéa, and Daala proceeded upstairs for the night. Lyjéa went to bed, fearing that she was about to get one of her infamous excruciating migraines, and Typhani walked Daala back to her room. 

Daala had noticed that there were two more doors at the end of the hall, a corridor that contained mainly the family's private quarters and only two guest rooms, or was it four? She looked questioningly at Typhani. 

"That one was Darth's room. He stayed with us quite a bit, you know. We had to put him at the end of the hall on the other side of these guest rooms, else we heard that respirator of his all night." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "We had our disagreements, but I miss him sometimes." She indicated the other door. "And, that is Rivoche's room."

"Who's Rivoche?"

"Oh, I thought you knew. She's Adrian's niece."

Daala understood then, recalling conversations back at the lab. "The 'adopted' child you had to send away. Where is she now?" 

Typhani looked away. "Coruscant," she muttered.

"Oh . . . "

The two women then proceeded into Daala's room. The staff had come in to clear and turn back her bed. She had never slept with so many pillows or on such an overstuffed mattress, a giant pillow itself. "Let's see what you've discovered so far," Typhani said as they entered the room.

"Oh, I fell asleep," Daala told her, and walked over to the well-stocked vanity table. She seemed to look perplexed by the vast array of small bottles and jars.

"You've never worn cosmetics, have you," Typhani asked.

"No," Daala said quietly.

"Not exactly regulation, is it?" Typhani continued.

"No," Daala said quietly again.

Typhani put a hand on her shoulder. "Daala, regulations don't apply to you anymore. You will never have to deprive yourself again," she reassured. Then she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. Daala's duffle bag was unzipped on the luggage rack, and Typhani noticed a small assortment of prescription bottles and two different inhalers. She didn't say anything. If there was a problem they needed to know about, surely Daala would tell them, she thought.

When Typhani left to go to bed, Daala stepped into her bathroom, to find it equally well-stocked with wonderful things to pamper herself in every way, most of which she had never experienced before. And a steam shower with a rain head! All of the bathrooms had them, but this too was a novelty for Daala. She quickly found that the moist steam vapors eased that persistent, burning ache deep in her chest. She took the plush, sea-green loofah out of its basket and a bottle of lightly scented herbal shower gel from the shelf, and, after nurturing herself with handfuls of thick, fragrant, creamy lather, she vowed that she would never use another hard and abrasive cake of military-issue soap that left her skin dry and burning ever again. And, after her hair shone with bounce, body, luster, and _control_ it had not known since before Carida, she forsook detergent shampoo as well. Typhani had put out a new nightgown for her, something that looked more like a ball gown to Daala. She had nothing to prove to anyone now, no troops to impress with a harsh demeanor, no bureaucrats or prima donna scientists to placate, and no Rebels to intimidate. She had only herself to heal. That night, she slept better than she had since leaving the Installation.

A couple of nights later, Typhani lay down alone in her own bed for what she hoped would be the last time. Tomorrow, she would do what she had longed to do for so long. She would return to Lumin and bring her husband home.

Typhani and Morgana had spoken by comm at least once every day, and usually two or three times. Morgana had reported steady progress, but was definitely upbeat by the time Typhani and Daala returned for the trip home.

"Just look at you!" Morgana commented when she saw Daala in a stylish new outfit with a full face of make-up and her hair up in a neat, braided twist. 

"Yes, we've been working on a few transformations of our own," Typhani said with a smile. Adrian was already up, dressed, on his scooter, and more than ready for departure. He called Daala in to ask her about something he had just seen on the holonet.

"Aren't you making her a little too attractive for your husband?" Morgana warned.

"Morgana, I very seriously doubt that is a considerable issue anymore. After what has transpired between us all, I know that there will be some close moments between them, but I now have her very well placed where I can watch her closely," Typhani assured her. Morgana nodded in understanding, ever intrigued by her sister-in-law's cunning methods.

"I certainly hope so, dear, for your sake," Morgana said. 

"She's not going back with us," Typhani alerted her sister-in-law. "She wants to run home this evening to make the announcement to her colony herself, and she'll meet us on Phelarion in the morning. She just wanted to go over her announcement with us, and so that's why she came along. So where do we stand on progress?" she asked, stepping a bit further down the hall so as not to be overheard.

"He's actually doing better than they thought--sitting up more, staying on the computer a little longer, and he's got enough strength to hang on to us now when we help him on and off the hoverscooter. I know what the doctors said, but I also know Adrian. I don't think he'll stay on that thing for long. I've been insisting that he will stand for his installation as Emperor, and I think I've managed to instill that as a goal," Morgana reported.

"I don't know. I just don't want to push him too hard," Typhani said, concerned.

"You can't baby him either, Typhani. It'll only make it worse for him, physically and politically," Morgana warned her. Typhani knew Morgana was right, but her instinctive protectiveness still prevailed. The elevators nearby opened, and a neat squad of elite security stormtroopers came marching down the hall toward them. "Well, here we go," Morgana continued. "They said they want him on the oxygen inflight, and they've also mixed it with a pretty powerful sedative. He should sleep all the way home."

When they boarded the shuttle, Typhani was concerned that the experience might trigger bad memories of leaving the station, memories Adrian still hadn't recovered. The last thing he had remembered prior to the explosion was the daily staff meeting at which he had first announced Palpatine's dissolution of the Senate, and also during which Darth Vader and Raolf Motti had gotten into an argument, and Vader nearly strangled the admiral. Adrian remembered defusing that disaster, but he as of yet did not remember creating another one--Alderaan. Typhani hoped that he would never remember that, or the stations destruction, for that matter.

"Hold on to me," Typhani said as she transferred him into the front center passenger seat in the shuttle so that she and Morgana could be on either side of him. "All right, back you go, and you need this," she said, pulling the pressurized oxygen mask into place. "And when you wake up, we'll be home." How she had longed to have been able to say those words during the trip home from Tallaan, but instead, it was Darth Vader who had said similar ones to her.

On the way home, Morgana commented, "You know, despite that I wish the circumstances were different, I've really enjoyed the past few days. That's the most time we've spent alone together since we were teenagers."

As soon as they exited hyperspace, Typhani took the oxygen away. "Adrian, you need to start waking up now, we're almost home," she told him. It took him several minutes to shake the effects of the medication, but by the time they put down in Port Tarkin, he was alert enough to get back on the scooter and to be a bit concerned about security. "No one knows we're coming in," Typhani assured him.

The security troops escorted them into an overland transport. "Things certainly have changed," Adrian commented on the way home. 

"Yes, but a lot of things are still the same as well," she assured him. And then, at last . . . 

Home.

The house had not changed much at all, as he remembered it. Typhani had kept it that way, for him. Lyscithea and Lyjéa were waiting for them, and welcomed their father home with open arms and open hearts, camcorder rolling. It was early evening on Phelarion by the time they reached the estate, and so Lyscithea asked her father, "Are you up to meeting Kormath and the boys tonight?"

"Oh, Scythi, I don't know. I'm still a little out of it," he said.

"I don't think it would be good this evening. We need to get you into bed. Surely we'll have lots of visitors tomorrow, though," Typhani speculated. "The rest of the Council and a few other higher-ups were informed today, and Gilad said the first public communiqué goes out tonight." Security troops already sealed the perimeter around the house and set up a command post in the ballroom to help screen calls and messages. Three separate welcoming events were being planned, one for family and close friends to be held at their vacation home on Lake Phelarion, one for the Imperial Remnant "Inner Circle" to be held at Villa Galaxia, the Tarkin family compound on Eriadu, and a more open one to be held on Bastion--three welcome back celebrations to counteract the three memorial services. Then would come the official installation of the Emperor and Empress. There had never been a question that they would ascend together.

On Pedducis Chorios, the Company of Independent Settlers had gathered in the main auditorium of their administrative facility by the time their president arrived. No one had ever seen her look like that--had never seen her look better, and had certainly never seen her in a dress, hose, and pumps! Whispers rose from the crowd as Daala walked down the center aisle to take the podium. She had full color in her face again, and strength and resolve in her bright emerald eyes. Only those very few who had known her in the Maw had ever seen such before. Daala scanned the crowd with a smile before she began to speak, and, at least for that moment, her chest swelled with pride instead of pain.

"As you all know, I've been gone for awhile, on my most important mission ever, and I am most pleased to report that this time it has at last been a success," she began. Some people in the crowd took her comments literally, thinking she had perhaps gone back to the Core Worlds or the like. The magnitude of the mission was as yet lost on them. "But with success comes change. We may all be leaving Pedducis Chorios soon--to go to Bastion. It seems, my friends, that the Empire--_our _Empire--is about to rise again." This time, gasps and comments rose from the auditorium floor. 

"A quarter century ago," Daala continued, "the Rebel Alliance took our greatest leader from us at the Battle of Yavin. I can say this with confidence because, as you all know, I worked directly with Grand Moff Tarkin for a number of years, and maintained his research facility for over a decade following the destruction of the first Death Star." At this comment, more whispers and some snickers rose from the floor. "Yean, okay," Daala continued with a wry smile. "You've all heard the rumors, and I will address those in a few minutes. However, there is something of much greater importance. I know that you were all told that I was away because a friend of mine was ill and that I had gone to stay with him and his family. That was quite true. Now my friend is well on the road to recovery, and we will soon have the new Emperor we have needed for so long. You see, there really was a shuttle crash at the Tallaan Shipyards on the same day as the Battle of Yavin, but, contrary to what you may have read, it occurred _after_ the first Death Star exploded. That shuttle, my friends, came out of the ruins of Death Star. There was one survivor, but we were never told about it because the magnitude of his injuries and an allergy to bacta prevented effective medical intervention at that time. So, this survivor was placed in long-term carbonite encapsulation until medical technology caught up with him. It did so three months ago." She paused again, and she could tell by the looks on their faces that the realization was beginning to hit her audience. This time, she could make out the whispers.

"By the stars, he's alive!" they came.

"Yes, everyone, it's true," Daala continued, smiling widely and speaking exuberantly. "Grand Moff Tarkin is very much alive, on his way home to Phelarion as I speak." Massive, thunderous cheers filled the auditorium as many of the colonists rose to their feet, many of them hugging each other and offering quick explanations to their children. "At last," Daala continued to try to get their attention again. "At last, we will have not only an Emperor, but an Empress as well, and, no, it's not me!" That succeeded in getting the crowd's attention again. Daala then offered what would become the official explanation of her relationship with the Tarkins, as she, Adrian, Typhani, and their new public relations committee had agreed would be for the best.

"As I mentioned earlier, for years, you've all heard rumors about an inappropriate relationship that supposedly took place at the Maw Installation. I never publicly addressed those rumors because of the very personal nature of what actually happened, and out of my deep respect for one thought lost. Quite frankly, it was nobody's business but ours, and by that I mean the three of us--me, the Grand Moff--_and _Lady Tarkin." More gasps and whispers rose from the seats. Daala moved on. "Now, however, circumstances dictate that the truth is better than the rumors. I will not disclose the specific details, but the Tarkins experienced a great deal of difficulty in building the large family they always wanted. After their youngest daughter was born, they were unable to have any more children. A few years later, after they had exhausted all of their other options--and well _after_ I had attained the rank of Admiral--I agreed to be a surrogate for them. Unfortunately, the events at Yavin intervened." Silence filled the auditorium this time. But then, one woman with a toddler on her lap began to applaud, then another, then another . . . 

Back on Phelarion, as dusk fell, Adrian and Typhani exited the lift on the second floor of their home and proceeded down the wide upstairs hall to their master suite. They went directly into their sitting room. Raycellna had waited patiently a quarter century to stand proudly with a tray of tea and wafers. She remembered bringing one that awful night Lord Vader brought Lady Tarkin home, but Typhani had told her to take it away. The memories were just too painful. Now, though, Adrian and Typhani settled onto their settee and into each other's embrace, and savored the bliss of finally being home and being alone together. 

And then, as it grew late, Typhani at last fulfilled her dream as she helped her husband into their bed and sank down next to him. The feeling itself, the connection between them, was too powerful for words, and so they just held each other deep into the night.

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	10. A Once and Future Threat

**Chapter 10:**

**A Once and Future Threat**

"I do not believe I am reading this," New Republic President Leia Organa-Solo exclaimed aloud as she read the official notice issued by the Imperial Remnant. As her husband, Han, leaned over her shoulder, she continued. "No, I do believe it. I have _known_ it in my _gut!_ As soon as the Empire came out with that bogus Tallaan Shipyards shuttle crash story, we should have known something was awry and we should have acted!"

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Han said as he finished reading the communiqué.

"I think that's an understatement. Look, we need to get moving on this. We need to get some information. I'll get Artoo to pull all the records we have on Tarkin, but we're going to need to take advantage of the inside help we have now. If you'll try to get hold of Rivoche and Qwi, I'll get Ackbar," she said. "And I'll get hold of Luke, too. I want him here as well, and Mara if she's up to it!"

Rivoche Tarkin was the last to join the meeting except for Dr. Qwi Xux, whose shuttle was late. Rivoche was surprised at a request to meet directly with the president, and was somewhat concerned that she might have done something wrong. Leia addressed her as soon as she took her seat. "I suppose you've heard about your uncle?" she asked.

"My _uncle_?" Rivoche said, sneering the last word through her nose. "That bottom-feeding nerf-herder has been dead for twenty-five years, thank the Maker!"

"Uh-uh," Leia told her, moving her head precisely first to the left, then the right. "According to the latest Imperial communiqué, he's been on ice until about three months ago, and is now apparently well on the mend, with his little lady Admiral friend under wing and your Aunt Typhani already acting like an Empress!"

"No!" Rivoche exclaimed.

"Yes!" Leia and Han insisted at once.

"I should have known. Knowing my Aunt Typi . . . Ice? Do you mean carbonite?" Rivoche asked.

"Yep!" Leia confirmed. "And we _all _should have known."

"He just won't _go away_!" Rivoche complained through clenched teeth. "They're going to install him as Emperor, aren't they?"

"Why, certainly," Leia told her, nodding, sharp sarcasm in her voice.

"That's going to be a problem for us," Rivoche assured her.

"We know. We've got archives of data on what to expect, but we've had that since before Ghorman, and we haven't been able to neutralize him. Rivoche, we need more, from the inside. We need an edge, some way we can get at him before he gets at us and starts the war escalating again. I spent about two weeks at your aunt's estate once, but I was too busy trying to get my hands on some of her megonite and get the hell out of there to pay too very much attention to her. We know now, what we didn't know then, that you, Dr. Xux, and Admiral Ackbar have some very direct personal experience that might be helpful to us. Can you help us--help the Republic?" Leia asked, expecting a warm and fully compliant response.

Rivoche folded her arms over her chest. She looked away from Leia. "I'm sorry, President Organa-Solo. I--I just can't think about that part of my life." 

Leia should have known. She nodded in what she thought was understanding, suspecting that Rivoche had been horribly abused. "We understand," Leia told her, "and we're very sorry you were brutalized by that monster. But if you change your mind, if you can think of anything--"

Rivoche cut her off, looking at the former president with wide eyes. "Me?" Then she looked at Ackbar. "You never told anyone what happened?"

Ackbar looked kindly at her and gently shook his head. "Of course not, Rivoche. You were only _seven years old_." he said. "You must make peace with yourself about that time."

Confused, Han, Luke, and Leia looked back and forth from Rivoche to Ackbar. Ackbar reached out toward Rivoche. She looked at Leia. "No, I was the one who did the brutalizing. You would throw me out of the Republic if you knew what I did!" 

"As a seven-year-old?" Leia asked gently. "It certainly couldn't be any worse than most of the things your uncle has done."

"Let it go, Rivoche. You have carried this burden for too long. Continuing to harm yourself with this burden will not change what happened," Ackbar encouraged her.

Rivoche's gaze moved around the room, jumping from face to face. She felt compelled to answer them because of their positions and their stares. Her bottom lip quivered, and she drew a shaky breath, staring down into her lap. "What do you want to know?"

"We need to know everything, Rivoche, everything you can remember. Please, for the sake of the galaxy . . ." Leia said.

Rivoche sat in contemplation for a moment, seeming to scroll back through her mind, back and back, until she was only a toddler. "Red!" she said.

"Red?" Han asked.

"Red carpet," Rivoche continued. "My earliest memories of my aunt and uncle were when their old house on Phelarion was still standing. When I was a baby, I used to play in this wide upstairs hall, and it had deep crimson red carpet. 

"The next thing I remember, I guess it was the fire. My father woke me up in the middle of the night and told me he had to go to Phelarion right away because there had been a bad fire in Uncle Adrian and Aunt Typhani's house. We were supposed to go there for a holiday, but then we didn't because the place had burned practically to the ground--something about the heating system. I remember asking my father if my aunt and uncle were all right, and he said that they would be. I never heard the exact details."

Han cut in then. "Adrian? Who's Adrian?"

"Oh," Rivoche realized, "Adrian is my uncle's middle name. He and my grandfather had the same name, and so my uncle was raised by his middle name to tell them apart."

"You remember your grandparents?" Leia asked, hoping to get some insight.

"Sure, my father's parents, that is. My Gramma Marganitha--she went by Maggie--had bright red hair--the orange-red kind--and blue eyes. I do remember my grandfather, but not too many details, because he died when I was about two or three. I remember being at the funeral, though."

"Do you remember anything else about them?" Luke asked.

"A little. Gramma Maggie was the quintessential Seswennan socialite, and my grandfather had been a military engineer and tactician all of his life before he became the Chief Military Officer of Eriadu."

"I don't mean to be difficult, Rivoche, but do you remember why your grandparents died? Do _you_ remember--not something your uncle may have told you?" 

"Yes, of course. Grampa had a burst blood vessel, in the brain. My uncle was with him when it happened, and he was pretty shaken up over it," Rivoche explained. Rumors had circulated throughout the galaxy for decades that Tarkin had killed his father.

"You don't think your uncle did it?" Leia asked.

"No, I don't. There was no evidence of that, just the rumor mill. Besides, it was so clear-cut in the autopsy results. Anyone who looks at the report should know that. I don't mean to defend my uncle out of turn or anything of the sort, but that is one thing that we know he did not do."

"And what about your grandmother?" Leia asked.

Rivoche looked away, and seemed troubled. "She died in an asylum for alcoholics when I was nine or ten. I was away at school by then," she explained. 

"And, it was your uncle who had her committed there, wasn't it?" Leia pressed.

Rivoche seemed a little embarrassed. "You're making me sound like my uncle's devoted defender!" she said, with a slight laugh. "Actually, it was both Aunt Morgana and Uncle Adrian who did it. They had no choice. Gramma was totally out of control after Grampa died. I was really afraid of her by then. She was horrible when she was drunk, and violent. She even showed up at my father's funeral drunk. I remember my uncle yelling at her at the cemetery, something like What kind of mother would show up at her own son's funeral drunk!' They were fighting over me, over who I should go with. I was scared out of my wits that my grandmother would take me back with her, and so I ran to my Aunt Typhani. I remember my grandmother shouting some of the most awful things about her as we were leaving--they _never_ got along."

"Do you think your grandmother might have abused her children when they were young?" Leia asked. Rumors of the "abuse excuse" variety had also circulated concerning the atrocities committed by the most infamous Grand Moff.

"I think they were probably neglected more than abused," Rivoche answered. "My uncle and my Aunt Morgana used to talk about it, about how they really bonded with each other because of it. Of course, there were droids and servants to take care of them, but that's always a poor substitute for parents. I do, however, remember Aunt Morgana telling me once that my grandmother's favorite tactic was that if one of them did something that displeased her, she would punish the other one. My grandfather was very much an absentee parent, and so I think my grandmother took it out on her kids. It's no wonder that my Aunt Morgana started drinking as well. I think my father got the worst of my grandmothers wrath, though. By the time he came along, Uncle Adrian and Aunt Morgana were almost in their teens, and also away quite a bit at military school."

"Your Aunt Morgana--your father's sister--she's an alcoholic, too, isn't she?" Leia asked.

"Yes, at least when I was around her. You know, of all of my memories of her, I don't remember ever once seeing her completely sober, though I hear shes okay now. She and my uncle both hated my father, and my Aunt Morgana was such a smart-mouth! Family lore has it she wanted to have a _keg party_ after my father's funeral."

"But one thing your uncle doesn't have is an alcohol problem," Leia observed.

"No," Rivoche said. "The only thing I've ever known him to drink is this thick, syrupy, heated, red chimbak wine, and usually with dinner. He gets really ill if he drinks too much. I think it's probably psychosomatic. I think he probably protected my Aunt Morgana from a lot of hell when they were young, and that he associates it with alcohol."

"What about your Aunt Typhani?" Leia asked, having had some experience in this area herself. "When did she come along?"

"Come along? She was always there. I don't ever remember her not being around. This is all pretty trivial. It can't be doing you any good," Rivoche speculated.

"No, actually I think you're on to something. Please, go on," Leia said.

Rivoche turned into her thoughts for another moment, and shifted uneasily in her chair. "The next thing I remember really frightened me. My aunt and uncle had already been together for way over a decade, and had been trying to start a family for years, but my Aunt Typhani had some kind of hormone imbalance that had been keeping her from getting pregnant. They finally found and fixed the problem, and one day when I was about four, my father told me that Aunt Typhani was going to have a baby. Then a few days later, he told me that Aunt Typhani was _not _going to have a baby. I asked why not, and my father, bless him, very carefully in four-year-old terms tried to explain to me that the baby had died. I kept insisting that it couldn't have died because it hadn't been born yet. I couldn't understand how something could be dead before it even had a chance to be alive, and that really scared me. It wasn't a month later that my father got killed." Rivoche choked back tears at the direct mention of her father's death.

"It was Admiral Jirak Worrell. He was close with my uncle and had it out for my father. Aunt Morgana--she was on his bridge when he destroyed the army station at Erhynradd. She just stood there and let it happen! She didn't do anything at all to stop him! Nothing!

"When I got home from school that day, our housekeeper had already packed some of my things. She told me that my father would be away for awhile, and that I was supposed to go stay with my aunt and uncle on Eriadu. They were kind to me and tried to explain my father's death in a way that I could understand and accept, but I just couldn't accept it, so I threw a fit. I threw lots of fits. I even got one of the servant girls killed because I threw a fit.

"Her name was Namir, and on the day this incident happened, she had been helping my aunt get ready for some sort of official event. I think it was a ball or a banquet. We were on Eriadu at the time, and I wanted to go. My aunt told me no, that it was not open to children, and I was stupid enough to throw a tantrum. My uncle was running after me, trying to catch me and get me to settle down, and I ran into my aunt's dressing room where I could hide behind her long gowns. He caught Namir in there taking something out of my aunt's jewelry chest. It was an unmounted stone of some kind. She had so much of that junk that she would have never missed it! But he caught Namir stealing nonetheless. My aunt was even more furious than my uncle was, and they shipped Namir to the labor colony on Phelarion and forced her to become a megonite harvester. I never saw her again, but a couple of years later, I heard that she'd been killed in an accidental detonation. I really liked her. If only I hadn't thrown a fit or ran into that dressing room, it would have never happened! At least that's what my uncle told me." Rivoche took a moment to regain her composure.

"By that point, they were jogging back and forth between the family compound, the Governor's Mansion on Eriadu, and the _new_ house on Phelarion. Oh, the _new_ house! That project went on for years and _years_! That was another thing about my aunt and uncle; they always had a project between them that they could wrap themselves up in. The problem was that I was never the project. There was always something going on and people around all the time. I know that was to be expected with my uncles position, but I mean _all_ the time. They never slowed down. I don't think they knew _how_. 

"After one of my uncle's promotions, we finally moved into the new house on Phelarion. But every time my uncle would be home for any length of time, it was always gotothelake, gotothelake, gotothelake--their beloved _lake house_. It was one of those big prefab dwellings that I vaguely remember them living in on Phelarion for a little while before the new house was finished enough to move in. After it was finished, they moved the prefab to some lake property my aunt had about three hours overland from the mine, and they built on to it. It was nice, but even there, the noise and the people--constant activity, I mean _con-stant_.

"The comm would beep off the wall, and my aunt and uncle would tell people, Sure, come on out, we'll be here for three more days' or whatever. Sometimes there would be fifteen or twenty people in this little prefab house, and the food--well, it was _obnoxious_! There would be just piles and piles of food, and people would be barbecuing outside, and frying fish and fritters, and you couldn't even get in the kitchen. There was this huge center island, and it would be just piled high, and the adults would stand around it and gorge themselves and be loud and laugh and tell jokes and carry on like a herd of Banthas! Uncle Bevel and Uncle Nasdra would have belching and farting contests, and Uncle Raith and Uncle Rodin would get thoroughly disgusted and start an argument with them, and then Aunt Dwyll and Aunt Elizie would get in the middle of it! Everybody was Aunt this or Uncle that to me, related or not. And they'd play loud music, and outside people would be on ATV's and speeder bikes and get dirty and wet, and be on and off of the party barge out on the lake, and _in _the lake. And then it would get dark, and they would all start their blasted _drinking_! Of course, Gramma and Aunt Morgana were always the worst." 

Han was grinning. "Hey, sounds like a party, people!" he laughed.

Leia was taking all of this in with an open mouth of surprise. "This certainly doesn't sound very--very _Imperial_." she observed.

"No, that's just it! The Imperials had lodges and retreats and vacation homes tucked all over the galaxy where they could go and not be seen and act like the true barbarians they are!" Rivoche declared.

Ackbar looked contemplative. He thought back, and smiled an inner smile as he remembered himself and Wilhuff Tarkin careening at full speed along the cool, wet, shore of Lake Phelarion on their ATVs, sprays of water cascading about them, Ackbar with a giggling, squirming, five-year-old Lyscithea strapped in front of him and Lyjéa with her father, the girls calling out to each other and to them, "Again! Again," and their mother, beaming, as she wove in and out between them on her speeder bike, her lush dark hair streaming behind her from under her helmet, all of their bellies full of barbecue and all the fixings . . .

"I must admit I had some _very _good times at the lake," Ackbar offered with a Calamarian chuckle.

All pretense of civility left Rivoche's face and she shot Ackbar a cold look. "Admiral Ackbar, how can you say that! They _enslaved_ you! How can you possibly say you had good times with them!"

"You had no good times?" Ackbar asked. "Nothing good came from your time with them?"

"Not particularly," Rivoche retorted.

"If we refuse to remember the good times we've had and dwell only on the bad, then parts of our lives become meaningless. I was with your uncle for nine years, far longer than you. I followed him around everywhere, and so I understand what you mean about the constant activity. But I would regret to say that nine years of my life had been meaningless," Ackbar explained, ever able to see the good in even the worst situations.

"Yes, Admiral, but you were also amassing very valuable information for the Alliance," Rivoche reminded him.

"True, but I did not know whether I would ever have the opportunity to use it. So it would have been only detrimental to myself to choose not to enjoy any pleasurable experience that presented itself to me. For example, as the girls grew older, we all went on many wonderful vacations together. I enjoyed those vacations as well. I took as much pleasure and satisfaction--as well as _information_--from the Tarkins as I could until I was able to make my escape," Ackbar explained. "It was my way of fighting back--of keeping myself strong. And you are slightly incorrect about one point, Rivoche. In your uncles eyes, I was not his _slave_. I was lower than a slave. I was his _pet_."

Rivoche scowled. "Well, I didnt enjoy myself at all! They never hit me or anything like that, but something was always happening to push me off to the side. Then when I was six, my cousin Lyjéa was born, and I might as well not have existed at all!

"And then--" She broke away, turned her head aside, and put her hand backwards over her mouth, not wanting to remember, let alone recount to the others, what happened next. "It had been raining that morning. My aunt and uncle always had their breakfast out on a veranda that had a staircase with three sets of stone steps that descended terrace-style into the garden. I remember one alien housekeeper--her name was Raycellna, and she was the only friend I had on the place--who went out to dry off the table and chairs when the rain stopped in time for breakfast. Raycellna always fed Lyjéa and me in the kitchen, and then she'd put Lyjéa in her walker and let her out on the veranda with her parents. That morning, out she went, as fast as she could go, with their two noisy, annoying little six-legged Eriaduan dogs in tow. Of course, my aunt and uncle immediately stopped their conversation and each picked up a dog. I tell you, my uncle could _lower his IQ_ around those dogs--'Oh you're such a sweet little fuzzy doggy, what an adorable little fuzzy doggy!' They paid more attention to their blasted _dogs _than they did to me!" she smirked in mock imitation. "Lyjéa waddled over to them and started in with her own little rendition of 'fuzzydoggy, fuzzydoggy,' and they fussed all over her for being _sooooo _cute, and my uncle handed her a piece of the pastry they'd been breaking pieces off of to feed to the dogs! I must have stood there for ten minutes, and they never even noticed me! I know I was stupid and jealous, but I just--I couldn't stand it anymore!" She broke away, near tears. "I ran to Lyjéa's walker and pushed her down the stairs--the walker flipped end over end--" 

Leia gasped audibly. 

"Of course, my aunt and uncle jumped up and ran after her, but the stairs were wet and they both went down . . . " Rivoche looked toward the ceiling. "I am so ashamed! My little cousin was only _eleven months old_! I can still hear my aunt screaming and my uncle telling her, don't move her, don't move her!' Lyjéa went blind over the next few days."

"Your uncle didn't come after you?" Leia asked.

"He broke his ankle. Badly. He couldn't get up. If he had been able to, I doubt I'd be sitting here talking to you right now," she said. "Then the security people came running, and one of them shouted at Raycellna to call for help. She pulled me into the house and kept me away from them. It was only a matter of days before they shipped me off to school on Claer. I only saw them on school holidays at official events after that. They didn't want me around my cousins, and, frankly, I didn't want to be around any of them either."

"Would you say that your aunt and uncle were close," Leia asked, seeming to remember something.

"Close?" Rivoche echoed. "That would be a gross understatement. It was as if they were actually connected to each other somehow. Behind closed doors, those two could not keep their hands off of each other, couldn't stand to be more than a meter away from each other. It was downright _disgusting _sometimes! And, they could communicate without saying a word! It was almost as though there was a--this crackling energy between them. Anyone who spent any amount of time with them noticed it." Luke began to take more of an interest at this point.

"This is news," Leia observed. "Strange habits for two people who traveled so much. From the outside, it always looked to us as if he did his thing and she did hers. What was it like when one of them had to leave?"

Rivoche contemplated for a minute. "Well, you'd think there would be these long, heart-rending, tearing-away goodbyes from the way they usually were, but it wasn't like that at all. Sometimes I think they were so close when they were together was to make up for the time they spent apart. When one of them would leave the other, they would . . .would--the best way I can describe it is that they would _stock up_ on each other's energy. They had their own little--_rituals_--thatthey always did when they were going to be apart for any length of time," Rivoche explained, twisting her hands in the air, seeming to have trouble gesticulating her meaning.

"Can you show me?" Luke asked.

"Of course," she said as she rose from her seat. Luke stepped over to join her.

"Okay, I'm trying to remember this," she said. "Just do what I do. It was either this," she said, grasping Luke's wrists as he grasped hers back. "Or this," she said as she put her palms flat against the front of Luke's shoulders, and he mirrored her movements. "I don't mean to be familiar with you, Master Skywalker, but they would be very close to each other with this one. Or, this," she explained as she placed the fingertips of her left hand near the juncture between his throat and chest just atop the notch in the clavicle, and the fingertips of her right hand over his solar plexus. At that point, Luke had to be careful not to knock Rivoche across the room with the Force. "They're not Force-sensitive if that's what you're thinking."

Luke stepped back and looked thoughtfully at Rivoche. "Your aunt and uncle came into their own during a time when being Force-sensitive could get you killed. They may have unknowingly suppressed everything. The suppression could explain some of your uncle's violence."

"Seriously, no. Not those two. No. Uh-uh," Rivoche insisted, shaking her head. Luke nodded, but he was not convinced. In what little archival literature remained of the old Jedi order, he had read of something known as a _latent diode_, a pair of sensitives, unrelated by sibling or other direct blood kinship, but often in an uncommonly strong pair bond or working relationship, whereby each individual would not necessarily be sensitive or aware of his or her sensitivity (latent), but together (as a diode), when specifically trained to channel their complementary energies through each other in a certain way, one could draw enough power to perform fantastic feats unimaginable and unseen in modern Jedi times. The thought of discovering a true latent diode, and of what could be accomplished with it, fascinated him. 

Leia, on the other hand, thought back to the time she had been stranded on Phelarion and Lady Tarkin had gotten hold of her to work as a servant girl in preparation for an upcoming Imperial diplomatic conference. 

* * *

She remembered looking at all of the family holoplates as she scrubbed the Tarkins' house from top to bottom. The very normalcy of the family pictures had disturbed Leia. Among them were pictures of Ackbar with the family on vacation, of Vader with the Tarkin children aboard the Death Star, and, most unsettling of all, one of Palpatine, taken in the easily recognizable banquet hall, holding one of the girls as a newborn. 

Leia also recalled moving a picture of Tarkin as she worked, then not putting it back in the same place on the table she had just cleaned. That inadvertent act had upset twelve-year-old Lyscithea, and she rushed up to return the holoplate to its correct position. "Be careful, Lerna!" Lyscithea had admonished her by her alias, and held her father's picture close for a long moment before setting it back in place.

For a brief moment, Leia put her hostilities toward the Imperial family aside. "You miss him, don't you?" she had asked Lyscithea, trying to gain some insight into what their home life was like when he was around. 

Lyscithea just nodded. Her small chin quivered, and Leia could tell she was near tears. "Mother will be very angry if she catches you not cleaning," Lyscithea warned her.

"Your mom's asleep," Leia told her. "Hey, it's okay. I lost my dad last year, too, around the same time as you." She would not stoop to such a low level as to tell an innocent child that the one had killed the other.

"What happened to your father?" Lyscithea asked.

In perhaps the hardest act of suppression in her life, Leia told the young girl, "He died in the asteroid storm that hit Alderaan." 

Leia also remembered Typhani's bitter anger, her intense emotional pain, her utter bereavement, and her obsessive drive to avenge what had happened to her beloved husband. She remembered how, late one night, she had been assisting Manda, Lady Tarkin's personal chambermaid, also Phelarian, and the closest thing she had to a handmaiden, with putting away some of her suits and gowns that had come back from the cleaners, having entered her dressing room through the servants' door in the hallway. The door leading into the bedroom was open just a crack, though, and as Leia neared it, she heard what sounded like muffled sobs coming from inside the main bedchamber. She crept to the door, and saw that Typhani still slept on one side of the bed, but that she grasped the other, empty pillow, and still cried herself to sleep at night nearly a year after losing her husband. 

Manda came up behind her. "Oh, no, not again," she sighed sympathetically. She turned first to the sink, where she dampened a face cloth, then retrieved a gilded, large-bristled brush from Typhani's dressing table. "Stay here," Manda warned her. "Only Raycellna and I are allowed in her bedchamber." Leia stayed by the door and watched as Manda caringly soothed her mistress to sleep by sponging away the tears and brushing out her hair. They spoke softly to each other, but Leia could not make out what they were saying, as she did not understand the local Phelarian dialect. 

"She's actually better, believe it or not," Manda said as she returned the brush to its tray on the dressing table. "I had only been working here for two weeks when it happened. It was awful for her. She really loved him. If it hadn't been for the girls, well . . . "

"Did you meet him?" Leia asked.

"Oh, yes, none of us ever got this far into the house without doing so."

"Did you come in from the moss caves?"

"No, from the office, actually."

"What did you think of him?"

Manda sighed again. "I really liked him. I thought he was rather nice, congenial, you know. I can't understand why people say such terrible things about him, especially now that I've been here for a year. It's almost as if they're not talking about the same person."

Leia decided at that point to see how far she could press the conversation and her relationship with Manda. "Doesn't he have similar chambers?" she asked, indicating the dressing area and small private office. Leia knew that Tarkin's main study on the lower level had been sealed. She'd already tried the door.

"Yes," Manda revealed, "on the other side of the master suite, off the sitting room. No one's allowed in there, though."

"No, I suppose not," Leia said with as much nonchalance as she could muster.

The following afternoon, with Lady Tarkin at her office and the rest of the servants occupied, Leia snuck back upstairs. Of course, she found the servants' entrance to the other dressing rooms locked. She slipped unnoticed into the master suite, through the sitting room, and into the other chambers through the unlocked inner door. At first, being in the place gave her the chills, and the creeps, being in the intimate space of the man who had ruthlessly destroyed her home planet. But she mustered strength beyond her aversions. If anything was there that could aid the Alliance, Leia vowed she would find it. Lady Tarkin wouldn't be back for hours.

Leia turned on the lights to find herself in the dressing area, face-to-face with a rack full of crisply pressed olive green Imperial uniforms of various classes, from the familiar full-dress variety that she had last seen the Grand Moff in when she faced him on the Death Star, to the more casual jumpsuits commonly reserved for travel and field expeditions. As she turned to her left, she observed another rack of typical Imperial male evening wear, the lavish cloaks and tunics and such that were the custom at official events. As she continued to search the chambers, she ran across the everyday sweaters, trousers, pajamas, slippers, athletic shoes, socks, underwear, and such, all of which seemed somewhat incongruous and yielded nothing of value to her. She switched off the dressing room lights as she slipped into the small anteroom that, just as in his wife's chambers, served as a personal office.

The smaller desk drawers yielded only a few office supplies, a mobile computer adapter, a half-eaten bag of crème wafers, and a large assortment of old-fashioned fountain pens and other such writing implements used for writing by hand, something of late done only as a hobby. The two file drawers were locked, of course, and Leia found no key nearby. Then she opened the center drawer, and looked upon something that intrigued her intensely. She smiled an evil grimace as she prepared to sink into her tormenter's plush leather easy chair and violate him in a most intimate way.

For a long moment, she sat with the black, leather-bound journal in her lap. The gilded initials W.A.T. shone prominently in the lower right corner, and the red silk ribbon bookmark with a silver medallion bearing the Imperial emblem tied to the end of it marked a place about three-fourths of the way through the volume. Then she hesitated. Did she really want to read the personal rantings of one she considered a madman? Was she about to be confronted with the sadistic descriptions of how he had tortured someone, or his latest plans to subjugate an innocent world? Or about how he lusted to use his new superweapon? The Alliance, she reminded herself. She was there for the Alliance. 

But there was one small problem. As she opened Tarkin's journal, Leia realized that she couldn't read the native Eriaduan dialect that filled the pages! She studied the writing itself, a steady, precise calligraphy characteristic of its exacting and efficient author. With a bit of effort, she could make out the dates of the entries, a few place names--Eriadu, Horuz, Seswenna, Coruscant--a few personal names that she recognized--Typhani, Lyjéa, Lyscithea, Morgana, Rivoche, Bevel, Ohran, and Nasdra--other names that she did not recognize--Raine, Valdemar, Quentiri, Nolan, and Daala--but the name that appeared most often was Typhani's. Little else made sense, and so she returned the journal to its drawer. She couldn't afford to take it and thus draw attention to herself. 

Leia had deduced from all of these circumstances and experiences that the Tarkins had been very close and very passionately in love, even after three decades of marriage, and she remembered asking herself over and over again as she worked, _"How could anyone love such a monster so much?"_

* * *

Now she had some insight, but no clear answer to another nagging question. She rubbed her right temple and spoke strongly. "What I am trying to figure out here is how a man can destroy so much and commit so many atrocities--literally kill millions of people--then go home and be so overwhelmingly affectionate to his wife, play with his children, and feed pastries to his dogs!"

"Remember, Leia, in everything there must be balance. Consider our own father," Luke reminded her.

Just then, Dr. Qwi Xux slipped into the room and quietly took her seat, careful not to interrupt the others. Leia handed her a copy of the Imperial communiqué that was the subject of their meeting. Qwi shook her head as she read silently.

"Perhaps I can help explain this," Ackbar offered. All gazes turned in his direction. "I observed similar patterns to those Rivoche described. Think of it this way. There are men among us whom we consider to be of utmost character, good, productive, even-tempered men. Then we are shocked to learn that these same good citizens' beat their wives, abuse their children, or are cruel to pets. We would say that these men have a _violent streak _amidst the overall personality of a gentleman. You see, with Tarkin, it was just the opposite. In his public role, he was certainly a ruthless tyrant. Early on in my time with him, I feared for my very life every day. But I soon learned that to _those close to him_, when that uniform came off, he became a diametrically different individual indeed. In fact, as the years when by and I became a permanent fixture in the family, gaining the favor of his wife and daughters, I came to know that he would never harm me in the presence of his family. So to put it analogously, Tarkin has a _gentle streak_ amid an overall personality characterized by violence, intimidation, and tyranny. But perhaps we can tap into and exploit that _gentle streak_."

Rivoche was pointing at Ackbar and nodding assuredly. "You nailed him, Admiral!" she confirmed. 

"You know, Ackbar," Han said, "I've always wanted to ask you. You spent _nine years _with that grimy green glob of Sithspit! Why didn't you try to break away sooner?"

Ackbar contemplated his answer carefully for another moment. "I set some very clear criteria for myself. I decided that I would never strike out at Tarkin in the presence of his family, nor would I strike in a way that would bring any direct harm to them." He paused for a moment. He remembered one time in particular, driving their large sport-utility overland transport to the lake. There were many twists and turns in the road, and many deep, craggy, moss-lined glacial ravines along its sides. He had thought about doing it, taking them careening over the edge into the megonite, even though it would have meant his own end. The SUV was quiet; everyone was asleep, except him. Lyscithea had just become old enough to ride up front without a child safety seat, and she lay curled up in the front seat next to him. Ackbar remembered looking over his shoulder, only to see Lyjéa sleeping quietly between her dozing parents. He couldn't do it. "I have to admit it," he continued. "I loved those little girls. They had done no harm, and I had also developed a great deal of admiration for their mother. Also, I decided to strike only when I had a clear and certain way to return immediately to the Alliance. By that point, I had accumulated such knowledge that I saw no value in destroying myself in any attempt to destroy Tarkin. Actually, I sought not to destroy him. My primary goal was to incapacitate him, to maim him in the same vein as what he had done to my people, such that he could do no more harm, and so that he would have to live with what he had done on what little in any conscience he had, but such that those little girls would not entirely lose the father they loved so dearly. Many times I tried to orchestrate a well-choreographed accident, especially after learning of the Death Star project. Alternately, I sought to bring about his capture and trial for war crimes. It was in this attempt that I made my escape. Unfortunately, I did not know that Tarkin knew how to operate the shuttle's escape pod."

"I saw it once. I had all but forgotten," Qwi offered.

"Saw what, Qwi?" Han asked.

"That gentle streak Ackbar speaks of. And you know, it seems the worse the act of violence that preceded its appearance, the deeper it ran and the longer it lasted. 

"You all know that I was the only survivor of the Omwati education sphere incident. Tarkin destroyed nine of my classmates along with their families and whole villages when they failed to meet his expectations. But then, when it was over, and I sat successful before him, everything changed, at least until I got to the Installation." Qwi looked thoughtful for a moment, and seemed to stare into emptiness. Then, she continued. "For four days in the Phelarian ice, I got to be a little girl again . . . "

* * *

The schedules had been disrupted by delays that night, and so they had been on the shuttle for a very long time. Little twelve-year-old Qwi had become so frightened of the man who sat next to her that she pressed herself as much as she could into the far side of her seat away from him, pretending to be asleep most of the time, not pretending at other times. But as the hours passed, he seemed different, working steadily on a mobile computer, glancing over every once in awhile to check on her. She had been genuinely asleep when he gently shook her awake. She realized that the shuttle had at last landed.

"Come on, little one, wake up now," he said, reaching for her coat. "We've got to get you all bundled up. It's late, and it's very bad weather outside."

"Where are we going?" Qwi asked sleepily, rubbing at her deep indigo eyes.

"We're going to my house for a little while," he said, tying the hood of her jacket tightly around her neck. "You'll get to meet my little girls."

_His_ little girls, she thought "Why weren't they at the school?" she asked with wise understanding but mock innocence.

Governor Tarkin looked somewhat annoyed and taken aback by the question, but made a quick recovery. "Well, one of them goes to a different kind of school," he told her, "and the other one isn't old enough yet. She'll go next year," he explained as he zipped up the front of her coat. Qwi knew better. She sat back down and nearly fell back to sleep as her tormenter put on his own wraps and gloves, then picked her up and carried her from the shuttle to an overland transport. It was very cold, she remembered, and an icy rain had started to fall. She opened her eyes again when they stopped behind a large, beautiful, ivory stone house, with big, arching windows and sweeping verandas. Too many strange places, Qwi thought, pretty house or not. Would she ever see her family or her own home again?

Governor Tarkin took her by the hand and led her up the steps as a member of the security detail followed with their bags. They entered through a large back room that had lots of appliances and storage closets and the like in it. "My goodness, what nasty weather," he commented as he now helped Qwi take off her coat and mittens. 

Then Qwi heard a deep, rich, woman's voice approaching from somewhere else in the house, "Adrian! I was getting worried!" A big, tall, pretty lady with long, dark hair entered the room, and Qwi was very much surprised by the long and affectionate encounter between the two adults. Then the lady noticed her.

"Well, what have we here! Oh, if you aren't _adorable_!" she said, stroking Qwi's feathery hair. 

"This is our little valedictorian," Governor Tarkin said, smiling down at Qwi.

"What's your name, sweetie," the lady asked her.

"Qwi," she squeaked quietly.

"This is my wife, Lady Typhani," Governor Tarkin explained, and then asked her, "Where are the girls?"

"In bed," she said. "It's a school night."

"Oh, I doubt there'll be much going on tomorrow," he guessed, reaching for his briefbag. "But we'd better get this little one into bed as well." 

Qwi soon found herself all alone in a very large bed in a very large guest room. After the horror she had just been through, taken from her home, her family, and tormented to the very limits of her mental capacity in the education sphere, now only to be in this strange house with these strange people, one of whom she feared might kill her in an instant . . . 

Realizing that she was finally alone, she at last had the chance to let her tears run free. She lay sobbing into her pillow for a long time as the storm grew worse outside, the wind howling and sprays of ice striking the large, arched windows. Then she felt someone sit down on the bed next to her.

"Oh, you poor little thing! All alone in strange place and a big storm blowing outside," said the kind, strong female voice. "Come on, sweetie, come on in here with us." Typhani took Qwi by the hand and led her down the hall to the master bedroom. There was a big, upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. "See, look here, this will make a perfect little Qwi bed, and then you won't be all by yourself," Typhani said. 

"Uh-oh, is someone not sleeping well?" Qwi heard Governor Tarkin say as he came into the room and slid his laptop computer back into its bag. Qwi noticed that he looked far less threatening in his pajamas and slippers than in his uniform and those awful steel-toed combat boots, in which he had mercilessly kicked one of her defenseless classmates to the floor when he failed a math test. Maybe the lady could help her.

"I want to go home," Qwi cried. "I passed my examinations, now I want to go home!"

"Adrian . . . " Typhani began. Qwi looked up at her with wide, hopeful indigo eyes.

"Now, Qwi, listen," Governor Tarkin said as he sat down on the bench next to her and Lady Typhani sat down on the other side, "You are far too smart to go back to that dirty bird cage of a world you came from! You have a wonderful future now. You are going to be one of the leading scientists in the galaxy when you grow up. And you're going to a very special new home." With that, Qwi's head sank, and they blanketed her down on the bench. She started to fall asleep again, but she could still hear the adults talking in their bed behind her.

"Oh, Typhani, you should have seen that place! The utter filth, and the stench--guano everywhere and maggots crawling all over it! That child was living in this filthy, disease-ridden, overcrowded, honeycomb dwelling-of-a-thing! I had to incinerate several of them from orbit because they were so nasty, and the inhabitants were literally mutated from diseases and who-knows-what!"

Her hopes dashed, Qwi finally slept. She didn't wake up until she heard Governor Tarkin's voice again the next morning. "No one is going anywhere," he said as he came back into the room. "We're iced in solid!"

"No school . . . " Typhani yawned. "The girls are going to love that."

Qwi sat up sleepily as two human girls about her age came into the room and bounced up on the big bed with their parents, not even noticing her.

"Ice Day! Ice Day!" they chimed. Qwi turned to look at them. The older girl had dark hair and eyes like her mother, but she seemed to be looking at nothing in particular. The younger one had light brown hair with a tint of red, like an old lady whose picture she had seen downstairs, with bright blue eyes, like her father. Qwi stood up, and the blue-eyed girl finally noticed her. 

"Hello," Qwi said tentatively.

"Hello," the blue-eyed girl replied, "What's your name?"

"Qwi," she chirped.

"I'm Scythi, and this is Lyjéa. She can't see you, though," Lyscithea explained. "You have really pretty hair."

The ice lasted for four long and wonderful days during which Qwi and Governor Tarkin's daughters played dolls and video games and watched endless hours of holovision and listened to audiobooks and took long, warm naps and ate wonderful treats. Qwi's favorite activity of those days, though, was playing with all the keyboards in the music room. She also recalled tasting the most delicious substance she had ever put in her mouth--better than any ice cream--a super-cooled concoction called stimufrost, so good, but so cold that she recalled Governor Tarkin sitting next to her and helping her with her glass so that she didn't cold-burn herself.

And then he came bounding down the back stairs into the playroom bundled in a thick wind suit. "Who wants to go on the sleds?" he asked them. Of course, his own daughters sprang to action and to their own outerwear, and Governor Tarkin said, "Scythi, take Qwi with you, and find one of your smaller jumpsuits from last year--a good, warm one--she's not used to the cold."

Phelarian ice sleds were wonderful things, Qwi remembered, large, lens-shaped dishes that glided effortlessly, almost weightlessly, over the thick layer of ice in the plaza behind the house. Once all three girls had been appropriately bundled for warmth, they all four put on cleated boots to grip the ice and proceeded outside. Governor Tarkin strapped the three of them tightly into his daughters' large sled, grabbed the strap, and for the next hour sent them flying gleefully around the plaza, in swoops and circles. Then Lady Typhani came back; in her own cleated boots, she had been able to walk to her office in a large building across the plaza. Then the adults joined in the fun. Qwi remembered that Lady Typhani pushed Governor Tarkin playfully down into another sled, sent him flying, and then grabbed the strap on their sled and sent them after him. "Get him, girls!" she teased. They did, and then it was Lady Typhani's turn in the sled. For another hour, the girls pulled the adults around and vice-versa, until everyone got cold and it came time for more goodies--cups of hot chocolate and gooey warm pastries this time. By the time the ice melted and the spaceport reopened, Qwi was not afraid of Governor Tarkin anymore.

* * *

"I have to admit something as well," Qwi said when she finished relaying her story. "He was a very good father, especially to the older girl, the one who was blind. He always knew instinctively where to be when she needed him. They had a silent bond of sorts, I think. I suppose it was that experience that made me go on willingly to the Installation."

**"**If I might offer one other comment," Rivoche added, "as bad as this may sound, if there is _anyone_ who can figure out a way to keep the Vong out of this galaxy, it's Wilhuff Tarkin."

Leia sat back with a sigh of very mixed emotions. She knew that Rivoche was right.

Later that night, Rivoche Tarkin lay flat on her back in her bed, unable to sleep, staring upward at the movement of the ceiling fan. The words of Ackbar and Qwi burned in her ears, and ate at her conscience. Rivoche had never allowed herself to remember anything good about her two-and-a-half years with her aunt and uncle, as if to do so would somehow negate her commitment to the Republic. But now, with more of her family intact than she realized, and the war over, she began to entertain the idea of allowing herself just one good memory . . . But then one became two, and the two became four, and a part of her soul began to open up to her that she had long since archived away just as sure as a forgotten volume of historical data at her office. 

Yes, she had help with her stimufrost glass too, didn't she? And, she had her own memories of being strapped into an ice sled and taken for wonderful adventures around the plaza. And of being comforted in the night when she cried out for her dead father. And of being held tightly when she finally finished throwing one of her infamous temper tantrums and lay exhausted and sobbing in her uncles protective embrace--held, and often rocked in a big, overstuffed recliner--not spanked, not locked in a closet, not sent to bed. She knew first-hand what Qwi meant about that protectiveness she had seen directed toward her cousins, but particularly toward Lyjéa. She remembered when her aunt had been pregnant with Lyjéa, and how fascinated she was when she could feel her baby cousin kick as she lay curled up next to her aunt in that soft, oversized bed when her uncle was out of town. And even after she had blinded her cousin and injured the two people who had taken her in, given her a home when she had no place to go, and tried and tried again to love her when she would not be loved, even after that, there were no blows, no harsh words directed at her that could never be taken back. She was simply sent away to school early. 

Of course, her uncle could not allow her to bring such grievous harm to his own family. She had left him no choice, much as her grandmother had done. And still, even then, although she preferred to stay away, she had always been very well provided for and protected right up until she met Vastin. And, her wishes had always been respected; on school holiday, if her family was on Phelarion, she went to Eriadu, and vice versa. She had their respect after all that had transpired, even as she repeatedly hacked into her uncle's computers and piped file after file to Biggs Darklighter and the Rebel Alliance. 

Yes, she disagreed with the way her uncle ran his region, but, she realized, she had never talked to him about it. What if she had? Could she have made a difference? Could _she _have saved Alderaan? Why didn't she try? After all, she had done far, far worse things to him and to those most dear to him to invite his wrath, only to be rewarded with anything from a hug to an excellent education with her every need met.

"Why am I here?" she asked herself aloud. "Why did I do this?" She fought to remember exactly what it was that caused her to turn her back on her family and on her country in ultimate betrayal. It began to dawn on Rivoche that, as she grew up, it was not her uncle she hated so much. She hated what _she _had done, and she couldnt deal with it. He was simply an easy scapegoat just because she had always hated herself, and it was so much easier to follow popular opinion in making her uncle into a villain than to face her own past. 

Or, perhaps it was just too painful to have so close a link with the greatest loss in her life, her father, and so she took it out on that link, her father's only brother, by association. Or, maybe deep down, perhaps even subconsciously, she cherished that link, a link she knew she would probably lose as well as the war escalated, and indeed she had until only a few hours ago. Maybe she knew as a teen that it would be easier to deal with that inevitable loss if she built up a protective wall of home-grown hatred around herself. Then she could be strong and save face, it being far easier to lose one hated than one loved. Yes, she finally realized, she had forsaken and betrayed her nation, her family, and her uncle simply because she was too afraid of losing him as well. 

Rivoche tore herself from her bed, shaking, her sheets and her nightgown damp with perspiration. "What have I done!" she shrieked, grabbing fistfuls of her strawberry blonde hair in her hands. 

Luke's wife, Mara, had been ill, and had decided not to join the meeting held the previous day on Coruscant. When her husband returned to their home and base on Yavin IV, she wished she had done so. Mara had known the Tarkins as well, back when she worked for Emperor Palpatine as an assassin of sorts. Luke handed her his copy of the Imperial announcement. "Some news about an old friend of yours," he commented, and waited for her reaction.

"Adrian . . . " she whispered as she read.

"I thought you probably knew him," Luke said. "Leia thinks he's going to make trouble for us again."

"That's very possible . . . " she ventured. 

"Were you around him a lot?" Luke asked.

"Oh, yes," Mara told him. "I even spent part of the summer one year with them--him and his wife, their daughters, and his niece. They are very intense, free-spirited frontier people. He worked with me on strategic tactics and computers. I was fourteen."

"Leia wants to know what you think, or if you have any ideas that might help us be prepared for whatever he might throw at us," Luke told her.

Mara sighed. "We could be in some real trouble here. You and I may have to deal with him ourselves, depending on what he does."

"Why do you say that?" he asked.

She stared hard into his eyes. "He's latent."

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	11. Making Sense of It All

**Chapter 11:**

**Making Sense of It All**

"I can't wait to take those plaques off. I should have had the workers do it already," Typhani commented as she and Adrian looked up from the base of the black obelisk in the courtyard of their home that had served as his mock resting place and memorial since just a few months after the Battle of Yavin. 

_In memory of my husband, we serve the Empire faithfully._

Adrian seemed lost in thought, and mixed feelings as his wife continued. "Everyone wanted me to lead the wives' organization--The Widows of Yavin. I couldn't quite take the charade that far. Byrela Yularen did a fine job in the post instead. Are you all right? This is a bit much for you, no?"

"I suppose it's just the manifestation of knowing that everyone thought I was dead for twenty-five years that's bothering me."

"We can take it down if you like."

"No, no, it's a fine tribute--to the memory of the Empire, perhaps to Cos and Darth . . . "

"Yes. Perhaps some new plaques are in order. That shall be a wonderful use for it now."

"Yes. It's time we move on to the life we have left, and to the future."

Just as they got back to the house for breakfast out on their veranda, three very excited little boys came bounding through the kitchen and out the back door. The boys had seen countless pictures and holograms of their grandfather, but now at last he was real to them. He gathered them close to him as Kormath and Lyscithea appeared in the kitchen door. Adrian marveled at Kormath, at how that shy, scrawny, scruffy-headed little boy had grown into a strong, handsome, and, after his father, brilliant man. 

Kormath now ran Sienar Design Systems, albeit remotely, since the company's founder and his employer, as well as his father-in-law's best friend, Raith Sienar, had suffered a massive stroke four years ago. Raith had moved his business from Lianna to Eriadu following his recovery of the company after a period of hostile takeover by the Liannan House Santhe. He had also been instrumental in helping Kormath rescue his father from certain Rebel execution for war crimes in connection with both Death Stars and the more recent Darksaber Incident, in which the elder Lemelisk had attempted to design a similar weapon for Durga the Hutt. The Rebels would allow Lemelisk's family and a few close friends to visit him one last time, they had learned, and so Kormath and Raith worked tirelessly to develop a cyborg likeness of the senior Lemelisk--as well as a personal cloaking device. Despite Raith's best efforts, the cloaking device would work for only about fifteen standard minutes on one charge, but that was all the time they needed. They cloaked the cyborg on the way in to the visit, recharged the device during it, and cloaked Lemelisk on the way out of the Orinakra prison, leaving the cyborg behind for the Rebels.

Adrian heard the now familiar hum of another hoverscooter coming up behind Kormath and Lyscithea. Kormath stepped aside to allow his father to pass. Bevel Lemelisk smiled widely at his old friend. "It's about time you showed up," he said amiably. "We've had pure hell without you!" His wife, Dwyll, soon appeared behind him. Dwyll was a cherubian little curly-haired old lady who liked to make her own folksy clothes and who absolutely loved to play kimba, a group game in which the object was to line up a series of numbers called at random and arranged in sequences that fall under the letters in the word _kimba_. The first person in the group to align the numbers would then shout "Kimba!" and win the game, while everyone else in the usually smoke-filled room would mutter an expletive of his or her--or its--own choosing.

Another of their closest associates had also in the end preferred to use cyborgs over clones, to her ultimate salvation despite the Rebels best efforts to eliminate her. Typhani rose from her seat in bubbly excitement as she spotted a woman getting out of an overland transport that had just arrived in the portico. "Ysanne!" she called, and ran to meet her dear friend. Typhani had helped Ysanne as much as she could after the Battle of Endor, but it hadn't been enough. Similar to the Lemelisk situation, Ysanne Isard had created likenesses of herself to aid her in her early attempts to hold the Empire together, both before and after the brief reign of Grand Admiral Thrawn. The clone she tried first she ultimately had to destroy. Whereas Daala's primary survival tactic had been to charge full-force through whatever obstacle presented Itself, Ysanne's tactic had been to hide and operate from remote locations. She found that she could much more easily control a cyborg, with its computerized brain, from a remote site than she could a clone. When a Rebel finally shot the cyborg dead, not sticking around long enough to realize that she had shot a cyborg, Ysanne used the opportunity to her advantage. Like Daala, Ysanne had quickly grown disgruntled with the chaos in the galaxy, and wanted her own empire of sorts, if she couldn't have the real one, her own little empire like her best friend Lady Typhani Tarkin had on Phelarion. A business. That was the way to be in control, and deal with the emotional baggage of their immeasurable losses, Typhani had counseled her. 

And so, Typhani helped Ysanne create a new identity for herself, one Dreya Nal, and then helped her set up her business, a large-scale company that provided security equipment, weaponry (much of it using Phelarian megonite, of course), and personnel to a vast array of clients. Unbeknownst to Typhani in the early stages, Ysanne's company also served as a front for spies and saboteurs that still continue to undermine the Rebel efforts. Like Daala, Ysanne wanted to hurt the Rebels as much as she could, but unlike Daala, Ysanne was far more strategic, covert, and long-sighted in her approach. She had declined the temptation to link up with the renegade Admiral over the years, because, unlike Daala, she was being successful at damaging the New Republic in ways that gave her great satisfaction.

Typhani and Ysanne embraced each other tightly, and then stood back to look at each other. Typhani reached out and took her friend's hands. "You know there will be a place for you, Ysanne," she assured her.

"I know," Ysanne replied warmly. "I'm just so happy for you! I just couldnt believe it when I heard!" She was only a young girl when her father had introduced her to the Tarkins when they were newlyweds living on Coruscant during the waning days of the Republic. Ysanne had idolized Typhani, who was about twelve years her senior, because of her creativity and intelligence, and even adopted her look as she grew up. Ysanne had learned the truth about Adrian only days before (her employees had picked up the information just prior to Pellaeon's communiqué), but somehow she had always known he wasn't really gone. 

She recalled the days she spent with Typhani shortly after the Battle of Yavin. She had been inconsolable, of course, and Ysanne speculated that she would be either insane or dead from grief within six months. When she received her invitations to the 13th Imperial Diplomatic Conclave--the conference that Typhani hosted a year after Yavin--Ysanne suspected that it wasn't over, that somehow Adrian lived on through Typhani. 

"And there you are!" Ysanne greeted Adrian as she and Typhani ascended the terrace steps to the veranda. "You got all thawed out just to come home to _Phelarion_! Brrrrrrr!"

"Now Ysanne, you know whose fault that is," Adrian commented, looking up lovingly at Ysanne's best friend. Ysanne was somewhat shocked to see Adrian on the scooter.

"Is it permanent?" she whispered, leaning close to Typhani.

"We don't know yet," she answered as someone came out of the house behind them. "And at last, this is a connection that surely needs to be made!" Typhani exclaimed as Daala stepped our onto the veranda. "Ysanne, Daala," she said, taking their hands and clasping them together in her own. "There! That's much better!" The two younger women had, of course, heard of one another's reputations and their divergent yet complementary approaches, and they sat down to get acquainted in a conversation of their own. Daala, however, did not immediately recognize Ysanne. 

"I am also Dreya Nal," Ysanne explained. "I hear you are also good at alternate identities," she continued congenially, referring to Daala's ruse at Carida. In fact, Daala's creation of a false identity for herself on Carida is what had given Typhani the idea to help Ysanne after Thrawn's death.

"The Rebels are really in trouble now," Bevel observed, looking on at the group that was steadily assembling. "Why, hello there, Daalabelle!" he said when he noticed his former Admiral's presence. That was the pet name that he had always called her to infuriate and enrage her, his close association with Tarkin the only reason he got away with it. He resisted the temptation to reach over and pinch her on the butt as she passed him. Dwyll was watching. Daala just ignored him, as usual, as she and Ysanne moved to the far end of the long table on the veranda.

Gilad Pellaeon was the next to arrive, followed shortly by Morgana and three cousins from Eriadu, Nolan, Raine, and Valdemar Tarkin, and Valdemar's fourteen-year-old daughter, Chantir. Nolan was an older gentleman, whereas siblings Raine and Valdemar were about Daala's age. 

Chantir, who resembled a younger Lyjéa, looked up at her father and exclaimed, "Daddy! You said I'd get to meet Admiral Daala!"

"And you will, my little pet, just be patient!" Valdemar assured her.

"That's the millionth time, Chantir, since we left Eriadu!" Morgana admonished her. Valdemar made Chantir take a seat after introducing her to her Adrian. Morgana spotted Daala and went to talk to her just as Nasdra and Elizie Magrody arrived, along with their daughter, Shenna, who had just completed graduate school, and her fiancé, Irek Ismaren. Shortly on their heels came Rodin Verpalion, a long-time close friend of the family. 

"Captain!" Ysanne greeted as Morgana concluded her little conspiracy with Daala.

"Hello, Ysanne," Morgana acknowledged. Then in the same vein as Bevel, "This is going to be _good_!"

"Not if you're a Rebel," Dwyll contributed. 

"My Emperor," Gilad acknowledged.

"Now wait a minute, I'm not quite used to that just yet," Adrian said congenially as Gilad sat down next to him.

The many conversations progressed along with breakfast. Chantir looked absolutely crestfallen as she sat pouting in a side chair, her petite arms folded tightly across her chest. Lyscithea helped Taeodor into his Grampa Adrian's lap, just as Wilhuff threw a bit of dry cereal at Chantir. "Stop it, Wilhuff, you little idiot!" Chantir declared, and promptly began to chase her younger cousin around the table. Just as she rounded the far end of the table, a pair of strong female arms reached out and grabbed her about the waist. 

"Tractor beam!" Daala declared playfully. As Chantir turned to face her idol, she found that she couldn't say a word!

"I wonder where young Chantir learned that expression," Adrian mused as he looked over at his wife. The New Republic teemed with little idiots.

When Lyjéa came down, she joined Ysanne and Daala. "_She would be one of us_" Ysanne thought, "_if only circumstances had been better for her_."

Wiping her hands with a dishtowel, Raycellna looked out the kitchen window at the activity on the veranda. "_Everything is going to be all right now_," she thought. She only wished that her dear little friend Rivoche was there. That would make things complete.

As everyone proceeded inside after breakfast, the conversation took on a debriefing tone. Typhani alerted Ysanne, "Dear, can you help Daala link us up to your computer network?" The three of them proceeded into Adrian's study, where Ysanne remotely logged on to her top-secret network and entered the codes that allowed for access and download capability. Daala tested the connection on one of the other terminals, impressed with the complexity and thoroughness of Ysanne's network and the valuable information it contained. 

Daala had one more uplink to create, and so she got on the comm to her technical contact on Bastion to make sure that her four large data cells, which Adrian had ordered transported from Pedducis Chorios to the Imperial Archives on Bastion under tightest secrecy and security, had been properly linked and connected to a secure channel. No Rebels would intercept any of their plans _this_ time. For the first time in years, Daala felt a faint sense of confidence and accomplishment as she entered what had been her password into the lab's computer banks, and recognized the still familiar access screens. The techs on Bastion had done a good job with the emulation of the lab's computer network. Only Adrian had full access to everything, though, and Daala moved aside as he took over the terminal and entered the codes that only he knew. Fortunately, he had remembered them. In another act of well-placed foresightedness, he had also created a duplicate of his database on Yaga Minor in the lab's computer banks. He could tell right away that his personal files had indeed never been accessed, personal files that would soon come to bear fruit now that he at long last had control of the Empire.

"You see," Adrian said to Daala, "you may well have saved the Empire after all. You've done far more than you know by preserving all of this." She only looked away. He decided to take a more commanding approach, as she had always unquestioningly accepted and respected his command. He looked around to make sure no one was listening to them, not wanting to hurt her by reprimanding her in front of the others. "Daala, look at me," he said softly but sternly, as he had done many times before to indicate that his next point was to be obeyed without question and never to be forgotten. She reluctantly looked up. He reached over and put a hand under her chin. "You have a self-esteem problem that will undermine our work here if allowed to continue. You are never again to refer to yourself as a failure, or to diminish the worth of your accomplishments or capabilities in any way. Is that understood, Admiral?"

She just nodded, but felt another surge of confidence as some of the long, lost color began to come back into her face. Such would not have been an adequate response in the field, but it was a start for now.

"That's better," Adrian continued. "Now show me where we were the last time I was there. Its time to move ahead to the future--to the future of our . . . " he trailed away, shaking his head slightly. His vision blurred out again, and the room started to spin. He started to slump forward, but Daala caught him in time.

"Adrian? What is it?" she asked, concerned. 

Typhani came over to them then. "I think you've had enough for this morning," she told him, and took him back upstairs for a midday rest.

As the rest of the "Inner Circle" assembled on Phelarion throughout the afternoon, one chief question came to the forefront. "As I see it," a rested Adrian said to the others later that afternoon, "we must decide whether we shall seek at once to regain control of the entire galaxy, or rather to build upon what we have for the time being."

Moff Delta Crowal of the Valc Sector spoke up then. "Now we have an interesting variation to your Rule by Fear doctrine. The Rebels have never been able to get their act together. Systems may return of their own accord to our way of government out of fear of the chaos in the New Republic, and the Rebels inability to effectively dispatch the Vong."

"So we let come what will," Moff Ephin Saretti noted, "and then subjugate the rest when and if we see fit?"

"A resourceful approach," Moff Aerom Flennic commented.

"We do not currently have the resources to retake the entire galaxy," Gilad reminded them.

"It is settled, then," Adrian insisted. "We shall lure back whomever will come willingly, drawing upon their fears of what will happen to those systems that continue to align themselves with the ragtag Rebel-scum New Republic. We shall then revisit the notion of galactic redomination in a few months."

Adrian had already gotten about the business of putting together a government well before he left Lumin. For continuity's sake, and he knew that the Empire desperately needed continuity, he had decided to retain and oversee the current Imperial Remnant Council, with Crowal, Flennic, Viorska, Pellaeon, Saretti, Andray, Sander, Derran Takkar, and others remaining on board. Takkar would be particularly valuable in that he had managed to infiltrate the New Republic for a brief time. His wife, Anlys, and Typhani were also friends, both having attended the same prep school on Clear as members of the same sorority. Typhani had been the sorority's alumni advisor when Anlys was pledged. Adrian also immediately reinstated Ysanne Isard as the Director of Security and Intelligence and installed Daala as his Military Chief and Commander of the Imperial Fleet, although he would be doing quite a bit of the advising himself until he finished teaching her all that he had started so many years ago.

He also finally began to allow himself to think about what kind of Emperor he would be, now certain that no Vader, Thrawn, or Palpatine, nor clone nor pretender to such, was about to rise up and snatch this dream from him. He had never been the type for clandestine pomp and ceremony for their own sake, and had decided well before Yavin that he would not be a mysterious, inaccessible, cloaked figure steeped in the trappings of Jedi sorcery. He had no sensitivity whatsoever, as far as he knew, to the Jedi, Sith, or their Force, and he had always been an active, involved, hands-on leader, far more open-minded and innovative than his contemporaries. 

Indeed, there had always been several points on which he and Palpatine had agreed to disagree. Palpatine's suppression of the creative arts had been one of the most critical points of dissention between the former Emperor and his first Grand Moff. Rank and favor meant privileges under Palpatine, and so the Tarkins themselves had been all but exempt from the creative famine. Still, Adrian recalled, he had attempted time and again to point out to Palpatine that his suppression of creative and artistic freedom stymied a less destructive outlet that those with rebellious intentions could have used instead of X-wing fighters, lightsabers, and such. 

Another primary point of departure between the former Emperor and the present had been Palpatine's distaste for and distrust of women, people of color, and people with physical and mental challenges. While the two divergent leaders shared varying degrees of prejudice toward nonhuman species, the Outer Rim Territories under Grand Moff Tarkin had become known as a safe haven for minority humans. Many suspected this sentiment was primarily because of Lyjéa, and, of course, she had a good deal to do with it. When Ardus Kaine took the reins of Oversector Outer after Yavin, one point quickly brought to his attention was that ninety percent of the blind and visually impaired people in the galaxy lived in the Outer Rim Territories, necessitating a special bureau for their services, and Kaine also had to assimilate an inherited staff that contained many women and minorities, and, yes, more than a few aliens. Despite his overall prejudices, Adrian had always been willing to put competence above planetary origin, thus allowing for the most exceptional nonhumans. Kaine also found himself having to work to keep pace with his inherited personal secretary, Friedra Darre, a classy, very well educated, and very efficient Black lady who demanded that he keep to his schedule and mind his security detail. Kaine's term as Regional Governor was brief, too brief for him to establish his own legacy much beyond the Pentastar Alignment. That of his predecessor, however, continued and withstood the throes of galactic turmoil. 

Those involved with security around the new Emperor had been concerned about and prepared for attempts at power-grabbing by any of the few warlords that remained after the last round of fighting with the New Republic. Only a handful of these individuals remained, but their behavior astonished everyone. Almost all of them had already sent messages of support to their new leader, most expressing their gratitude that the struggle for dominance, and the destruction it was causing their nation, was at last over. Daala screened these messages herself as they came in through the command center in the ballroom, and likened the warlords' behavior to that of a classroom full of noisy, naughty children when the headmaster walked in. Suddenly, everyone decided that they'd better behave.

As the evening wound down, Adrian indicated for Gilad to follow him into his study and to the computers. "About resources," Adrian said as he logged on to one of the three terminals in his study, "You would recall that I was a master of diversion. Do you remember my database on Yaga Minor?" Gilad nodded, realizing what was about to come. Adrian continued, "I have all sorts of little--and not so little--hidden fiscal pockets all over this galaxy. All we have to do now is consolidate everything." 

Gilad seemed obviously relieved. Money had indeed been tight for the Imperial Remnant since the peace accord. "You never cease to amaze me," he said. "So that's what your personal files were all about," he continued as Adrian pulled up a spreadsheet displaying the scope of the hidden assets.

"We'll be just fine," Adrian said.

"More than fine," Gilad agreed as he looked down the columns of data. Their extensive efforts to bring Adrian back had already been more than worthwhile, but this, to Gilad, was ultimate confirmation.

"Now this is assuming everything is still there," Adrian cautioned him. They would task a few good people from Muunilinst with rounding up all of the hidden funds and transferring the same into the main Imperial treasury on Bastion.

As Gilad left to retire for the evening, Bevel Lemelisk hovered into his friend's study. They began to discuss all of the pain and strife that had transpired since Yavin, and to reminisce about an incredibly close call they once had. Adrian was astonished to learn that the Bevel Lemelisk who sat in the room with him was actually the _seventh_ clone of the man he had known as his Chief Engineer. Bevel explained Palpatine's cruelty, cloning and killing, cloning and killing, to get another battle station out of him, without the benefit of help from his colleagues back at the Maw Installation. Adrian felt bad for his close friend and colleague, having not been there to protect him from such outrage. 

"You never told anyone about the lab?" Adrian asked.

"No, of course not," Bevel answered. "I didn't know which would be worse--the Rebels finding out about it or Palpatine. Can you imagine what he would have done to Qwi and Tol? And, of course, I couldn't go back because I didn't know the way in."

"You see," Adrian said, "that's why I intended to use the station against Palpatine. He was totally out of control." And, Bevel felt terrible for the design flaw that had allowed the Rebels to destroy the first Death Star and put his benefactor into a protracted encounter with carbonite. Palpatine had blamed and punished Lemelisk for that as well.

They next turned their discussion to the design flaws, and where they had gone wrong with the two stations. Typhani looked in from the hall, and could sense the seriousness of their conversation. She pulled the study door closed to a crack, looked at her chronometer, and decided to let them alone for another half hour before suggesting to her husband that they retire for the night. Seeing them together talking technical, as they so often did, reminded her unpleasantly of the incident about a year before Yavin, another time she'd nearly lost Adrian, although it had been a mere prelude of what was to come. 

* * *

Typhani had come in from the mine offices for the evening and looked in on her daughters to make sure they were doing their homework. "Oh, Mom, Dad called," Lyscithea told her mother.

"Oh really? So they're at the station already? How did the test flight go?" she asked.

Ten-year-old Lyscithea did not look away from her computer. "They didn't do it yet," she said. "But get this! When they were about to jump to hyperspace from Eriadu, they got shot up by Rebels, and they had to get in the escape pod! Dad said he got a little scorched and sprained his bad ankle again, and Uncle Bevel broke his nose! Dad said they saw the Rebels blow the shuttle to bits, and it was really cool!"

Lyscithea did not even notice that every drop of color had drained out of her mother's face, and that she had dropped her handbag and a handful of papers. "Shot at by Rebels! Escape pod!" she shrieked.

"Yeah, but they're okay now," Lyscithea reassured her mother. "It was only three Y-wings."

"They blew up the shuttle?" Typhani asked breathlessly, her knees shaking.

"That's what Dad said," Lyscithea confirmed. "He said he'd try to catch you later, though."

Typhani had so often worried about Adrian darting around the galaxy in unmarked shuttles without proper escort. She recalled speaking to her cousin, who was also her husband's second-in-command on the Death Star project, about it at the last official event they had attended together. Admiral Raolf Motti initially laughed at Typhani and gave it back to her in like kind. "And how many times to we go flitting off to the Mall of the Empire without an adequate security detail, my dearest Lady Tarkin?" he teased.

"That's different," she had told him, then turned away as someone called out to her.

"It's not _different_," Motti had chuckled under his breath, but agreed with Typhani that someone needed to keep an eye on Adrian, especially as the Rebellion escalated. Raolf had taken it upon himself to be that eye. He had arrived with his Destroyer just in time to drive the Y-wings away from the escape pod and recover it.

Typhani paced the floor the evening her daughter told her of the Rebel assassination attempt on her husband. Such had always been among her worst fears--her very worst being that the Rebels would somehow manage to poison all of them. When her comm finally beeped, she nearly tore it from its port.

"Adrian! What happened!" she demanded.

He proceeded to repeat the same story as he had told his youngest daughter earlier that afternoon, but he had some bad news that he didn't want to relay directly to his children. Typhani asked before he could get to it. "Where's Ackbar!"

He was silent for a moment.

"Adrian?" Typhani prompted him.

"The Rebels got Ackbar. There was room in the pod only for Bevel and me," he explained.

"What am I going to tell the girls!" Typhani asked tightly.

"Don't tell them anything yet," Adrian said. "Maybe he'll get loose and come home." He declined to tell his wife that their pet Mon Cal had turned on him, dropping the shuttle's shields as the Rebels attacked.

* * *

But, of course, Ackbar never came home. Instead, he had turned Rebel and assumed command of their entire fleet, costing the Empire numerous defeats--including the most critical one at Endor during which the second Death Star had been destroyed and Vader and Palpatine were killed. After all, Ackbar had learned from the Empire's master strategist and tactician, and then betrayed him, but perhaps not so in the end. The aftermath of Endor had left the Imperial throne empty for nearly two decades. In a way, Ackbar had, through his traitorous actions, actually, albeit unwittingly, made way for Adrian. 

As the last of their guests either retired to the guest suites on the third and fourth floors of the house, or left for the evening, Adrian and Typhani went up to bed early. After they got into their night clothes and Typhani helped her husband into bed, she walked across the room and opened a cabinet teeming with holovids next to the large-plate holovision opposite their bed. She stood back, thoughtful for a moment, holding her chin in her hand. "Scythi's wedding?" she asked Adrian, looking over her shoulder. She had scrupulously and lovingly recorded every single major family event for him--every vacation, every Winter Holiday, every birthday, the girls' graduations (which included one for Rivoche, two for Lyscithea, and four for Lyjéa), Vader's and Palpatine's memorial services, his own memorial services, the births and homecomings of each of their grandsons, and countless other occasions.

The wedding vid was especially spectacular. Typhani had ordered that one made professionally. Adrian had wondered who had stood in for him, but had never gotten around to asking. Now he looked on with a sense of pride and satisfaction as he watched his lifelong best friend, Raith Sienar, give his baby daughter away. "You made the choice I would have made," he told Typhani.

"I thought so," she said, and moved a bit closer to him. The cabinet contained enough holovids to provide them viewing material each evening for nearly a year. Typhani had reading material for him as well. When the wedding vid concluded, she went into her dressing room and came back with a small but heavy wooden trunk, which she set on the bed between them. "You once asked me what I did with these when I was finished," she reminded him as she lifted the lid to reveal a quarter century's worth of journals that she had written specifically for him--indeed, the galaxy's longest love letter. These evening viewings and readings would come as a welcome relief to Adrian after so many long hours of dealing daily with governmental matters, which he enjoyed intensely, but which also tired him easily and sometimes caused him a great deal of stress. 

For the next several weeks, members of the Imperial Inner Circle cycled in and out of the Tarkins' estate on Phelarion as Adrian prepared himself to lead the Imperial Remnant. They brought him information, held meetings, issued communiqués, and answered his many questions. He and Daala spent countless hours at their computer terminals, and so she and Typhani would transfer Adrian into a more comfortable office chair that provided better support for the longer sessions. Twenty-five years of volatile history was, of course, a great deal to assimilate in only a couple of months, especially in his compromised condition. Typhani began to fear whether it might be too much for him, perhaps for both of them, ever watchful, ever protective. And ever wise . . . 

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	12. Of Obstacles and Setbacks

**Chapter 12:**

**Of Obstacles and Setbacks**

As the passing weeks turned to months, everyone slowly settled back into a routine. Paperwork, meetings, orders, chains of command and such steadily resumed a resemblance to their pre-Endor states, albeit on a much smaller scale. Adrian had begun to ramp up his assumption of duties, as he and the Empress made preparations for their upcoming coronation. 

They never had a formal wedding, having been abruptly married by Palpatine in his chambers when they had merely disclosed their engagement to him. In the years that followed, family circumstances and galactic events never made way for an official celebration. Adrian had, for all official purposes, been the new Emperor as soon as the carbonite melted away from him, so the coronation would be a celebration of the return of the New Order more than a real transition of power. He and Typhani realized, however, that if they waited just another four months past the originally planned date, they could ascend on their fifty-fifth anniversary. The extra time would also allow for the preparation of a truly spectacular event.

For the moment, the Imperial Remnant enjoyed the luxury of time. The reports coming in from the New Republic, however, were not good. The extragalactic aliens known as the Yuuzhan Vong were steadily going about their business of cutting a swath of destruction through New Republic territory. Adrian kept abreast of the situation, but sat back and let the invaders do his dirty work for him, thus stockpiling and preserving his own resources. Of late, however, some of their actions made even him wince inside. 

Leia Organa-Solo, the little girl he'd known on Alderaan, the spiteful young woman he had dealt with on his Death Star, the unknown daughter of one of his very closest friends, and the proven leader who still answered to the title of Chief of State from time to time, recently completely left the New Republic government and public life, citing insurmountable personal difficulties. Her husband's alcoholism over the loss of his close friend and co-pilot, the Wookiee hero Chewbacca, had been one blow to her. As Adrian read of this, it reminded him of his mother after his father passed away, and of how he and Morgana also had to take time away from their professional lives to contend with her alcohol dependency. His response to that first newsfeed detailing Leia's difficulties had been a smug chuckle. At last that festering little clump of Rebel scum was getting hers!

But then came word of worse horrors, destructive tactics even he had pushed out of his mind. The next he heard of Leia, for all official purposes his counterpart in the New Republic along with Borsk Fey'lya, she had also recently survived some substantial injuries at the hands of the Vong, who were of late conducting their own Jedi Purge. Sitting on his hoverscooter as he read, he could not laugh at Leia this time, although a twinge of jealousy coursed through him that she, not allergic to bacta, had quickly and fully recovered.

And then he got word of something no one recovers from--the loss of a child. The Vong had killed Leia's youngest son, Anakin, named for his grandfather, the man Adrian and his wife had known since he was a pre-teen boy back on Coruscant, who had transformed not only into a close and powerful Imperial ally, but also practically a member of their own family. Even in death, Darth Vader still had a room in their home. Adrian thought of his own grandchildren, and regretted that Anakin/Darth did not live to see his. "Go to your grandfather, young spirit," Adrian said softly to Anakin Solo as he closed the computer file. 

Not that. Yes, he thought, Leia deserved to be reindoctrinated into the ways of order, but not even she deserved to lose a child, and certainly not three, not all of them. Shortly after young Anakin's death came word that Leia's other son, Jacen, had been taken by the Vong and was also feared dead. And then her daughter, Jaina, left her family and the Republic altogether, seeking refuge in the independent Hapes Cluster.

A strange feeling it was--very strange. The Yuuzhan Vong were tearing his arch-enemies apart, making them almost incapable of coming after him or the Imperial Remnant. He should be reveling in maniacal glory, he knew. But instead, for a fleeting instant, Adrian found himself wishing he could help Leia, as he had wanted to help her before, when he'd been forced by Vader and Palpatine to cast her back into the throes of the Galactic Civil War, a misguided decision that ultimately led to everyone's present circumstances. How different things might be now, he wondered as he sat reading at his desk in his study, if he'd been able to adhere to his original plans.

He shook his head as if to knock askew thoughts back into place. He had always been so very good at keeping separate those things personal from the professional, friend from subordinate, ally from foe, duty from compassion, and obligation from sentiment. Recently, however, the sensations, the blending of factual observations and powerful emotions, made him feel as though the injuries he'd endured had somehow destroyed the hypothetical 'firewall" in his mind. It unsettled him. He was a man of efficient order. He needed order, for everything to neatly fit within its designated container and stay there. He needed his routine back. He would demand it back, force it back if he must. 

With this return to routine, the chaos ebbed a bit, especially as Adrian assimilated more and more of the events he had missed. In fact, of late, he actually spent most of his time reading, delegating much of the trivial work, the answering of messages and such, to Daala and the staff in the command center in the estate's ballroom. On one of these typical days, after he'd been home about a month, Typhani and Daala transferred him onto the sofa in his study with some reading materials he had downloaded and printed from the Bastion archive network. Daala continued her work on the computers, typing steadily, dispatching military directives, consumed in a sphere of her own, when she heard the papers drop and scatter. She chuckled softly to herself, "That didn't last long." She merely assumed that the materials had literally bored Adrian to sleep. 

An unusual noise caused her to turn sharply, and to dart for the sofa. The Emperor had suddenly gone into convulsions, and began gasping unsuccessfully for air. "Adrian, what--" she began, but then realized that the situation was deteriorating rapidly. "_Not now, not after all this!" _she thought as she rose and turned for the door. "Typhani!" she screamed, running out of the study into the back hall. "Typhani! Where are you! Come quick!" Typhani appeared at the top of the main staircase, and quickly made her way down. 

Adrian had been reading about the immediate aftermath of Yavin, and had come across his own official death notice and a report detailing the shuttle crash at Tallaan. He hadn't expected those materials to be in the download. It was all coming back now, rushing back, too fast, too much, too hard . . .

* * *

The battle raged on outside as the Rebels continued their relentless attack on the Death Star. Deep within the station, Charlie Bast had remained at his post by Adrian's side, having just warned him of the impending danger. He had already herded the others onto Adrian's command shuttle, telling them that he would get the Governor and be right back. But Adrian hadn't taken the always overprotective Charlie seriously, caught up in what he believed to be his "moment of triumph" over the Rebellion. He gave the command to fire on the Rebel base, but instead of the rising hum of the charging superlaser, they heard a loud and deep rumbling that seemed to be emanating from the central core of the battle station. "We have to move, now," Charlie insisted, forcibly grabbing Adrian about the shoulders and pulling him away from the viewscreen. Then they could hear explosion after explosion advancing quickly in their direction. Now Adrian knew the danger was real, and stayed immediately one pace behind Charlie, as his security people had trained him to do. As they ran into the corridor leading to the hanger bay where the shuttle was waiting, a gun turret charging unit exploded, bombarding them with shrapnel. Charlie instinctively turned and jumped in front of Adrian, but they had both been hit and the blast threw first Adrian into the far wall and then Charlie into him. They had only a second to recover, and without another to spare, Charlie grabbed hold of Adrian as they stumbled toward the open-grid metal stairs leading down into the hanger bay. 

Just as they reached the stairs, another component exploded, and Charlie reflexively pushed Adrian out of the way, inadvertently sending him tumbling down the open-grate stairway. He slipped through the railing about halfway down, and fell to the deck below, landing hard on his side. He heard the bones break before he felt them, as more shrapnel and exploding components rained down on him. With the wind knocked out of him, he tried to get up, but then another blast hurled a scrap of machinery at him that struck him hard in the head and chest, rendering him unconscious. 

Charlie, on the other hand, had been thrown completely over the top railing by the blast, taking much more of the hit from it than Adrian had, falling much further, and crashing into the deck. Still conscious, though, and driven by duty and loyalty, he scrambled to Adrian, heaved the debris off of him, and half-dragged, half-carried him to the base of the shuttle ramp, where Admiral Motti and Commander Romodi quickly pulled them aboard. The shuttle accelerated away from the exploding station at the last possible second.

Charlie then collapsed as Romodi tried to help him. Blood and foam gurgled forth from his mouth, nose, and ears, and his eyes were back in his head. Then Romodi noticed that Charlie had been almost impaled through the gut by a twisted piece of metal, and he knew it was no use. He eased Charlie's upper body back against the bulkhead as he died.

Romodi then turned to assist Motti, fearing that the scene was about to be repeated with the Governor. "What course?" someone shouted from the cockpit.

Motti had to think fast about where they were. "Tallaan! And fast!" he ordered.

General Tagge had already pulled the emergency kit. With their military training coming to bear, they worked quickly to tear through the thick fabric of Adrian's uniform and apply emergency medpacks to the worst wounds, but they knew there was no way to stem all of the blood flow. They would instead have to take steps to try to keep him from going into shock. Motti grabbed a thermal blanket from the emergency kit and they wrapped him tightly in it, then lifted him into one of the seats as the pilots alerted them that they were about to make the jump to light speed. 

Raolf Motti stood over Adrian, and began to pull the seat straps tight to hold the thermal blanket in place. Adrian started to come around at that point, and began to struggle against the straps, a horrible nightmare now coming to pass. It was then that they realized he wasn't getting enough air. He had been bludgeoned in the chest, they knew, and Motti and Tagge speculated, correctly, that broken ribs may be causing his lungs to collapse. Romodi pulled the emergency oxygen system from its compartment, and they strapped the mask securely onto Adrian as he fell unconscious again. For Raolf, thoughts of Typhani, his cousin, came to his mind as he fought to save her husband. He knew too well what such a terrible loss might do to her.

When the shuttle exited hyperspace just outside of the Tallaan system, the hull breached, and the atmosphere in the cabin quickly leaked out. As everyone began to suffocate, base self-preservation reflexes began to kick in, and Tagge scrambled for the oxygen. Motti overtook him, though, pulling him off of Adrian, and they fell to the shuttle deck at his feet--dead.

* * *

By the time Typhani and Daala rushed back into the study, the convulsions had thrown Adrian from the sofa to the floor, and Typhani sank down next to him and pulled him up into her lap. "Daala, get the oxygen machine, quickly! It's in our sitting room!" she shouted as she hovered over her husband. Daala tore out of the room and up the stairs to the master suite. 

"It's all right, Adrian. Calm down now," Typhani soothed, instinctively rocking him back and forth.

Daala quickly returned with the oxygen, but with the memories he had just recovered, he resisted them as they tried to get the mask on him. "Stop fighting it. You have to catch your breath," Typhani told him as she held the mask in place and Daala pulled his hands away to keep him from grabbing at it. It was several more minutes before the crisis ebbed. "There, you've just gotten winded, that's all," Typhani reassured him as she took the mask away.

Daala looked around at the scattered papers on the floor, and quickly discovered what had set him off. "Oh, no," she said as she took up the pages describing the aftermath of the Battle of Yavin. 

"What?" Typhani asked. 

Daala held the printouts down where she could see. "Yavin, Tallaan," she explained. 

"You remember it now, don't you?" Typhani asked, concerned.

"We were running--everything--exploding--coming apart--it was awful!"

"Yes, but you made it."

"Not so well."

"It's over, Adrian. It's all in the distant past now, and you've come through the worst of the aftermath. Now that you remember, you can go on," Typhani reassured him as she helped him sit up against the base of the sofa until he completely reoriented himself.

But no sooner had Adrian's episode subsided when Daala's began. She had run too hard and too fast up and down the stairs. It started slowly at first, just a couple of slight coughs, but then she couldn't stop it, and the stabbing pains came on quick and hard like white-hot metal rods being driven repeatedly into her chest. One trembling hand went to her throat and the other to her chest as she sank into a chair and doubled over in convulsive coughing, gasping spasms of her own as the fire rose into her throat and her air passages began to swell shut. With Adrian settled, Typhani scrambled to her feet and came toward Daala with the oxygen mask. She pushed it away.

"No, it'll make it worse!" she gasped painfully, then started to get up. 

Then Typhani remembered something she had seen upstairs. "Where are your inhalers?" she asked urgently.

Daala's face began to turn a deep red as she tried to draw enough of a breath to answer. "In the bathroom, near the sink," she rasped, then slumped onto the desk as another coughing salvo tore at her own injured lungs.

Now it was Typhani's turn to run upstairs. She returned with both inhalers just as Daala was about to pass out. She grabbed one of the inhalers and drew as deeply as she could from it as Typhani and Adrian looked on, concerned. At last, her breathing grew easier, and she wiped away the tears that had streamed from her watering eyes as Typhani pulled her hair back out of her face.

"How did you know," Daala asked, her voice barely above a raspy whisper.

"I saw them in your bag. Daala, what in the universe . . . ?" she asked as she handed her a glass of ice water.

Daala looked down at Adrian, then back up at Typhani. She still did not know that Typhani had filled Adrian in on her long and troubled field history. "It was during one of the battles I was in. I, uh, I accidentally inhaled some hot gasses. I've had it treated several times over the years, but it's been getting worse," she explained weakly. She then fearfully awaited Adrian's reaction. If she was breathing burning gasses, then he would know that whatever ship she had been commanding was most likely destroyed. But in his present state of mind, the fact didn't register.

"I think we need to get you both upstairs for the day," Typhani suggested. Daala only nodded. She didn't have the strength to help Typhani, but, to her surprise, the rather strong Phelarian woman did not really need her help. She pulled Adrian first up onto the sofa, then transferred him to his hoverscooter. Daala followed behind them as they went upstairs. With an inhaler in each hand, she went to her room to lie down.

Typhani transferred Adrian onto their bed, and settled him in for a nap. Again, he was being far too quiet, and that concerned her. "Are you all right now? What is it?" she asked as she sat down next to him. But he only stared past her into space. She leaned closer to him. "Adrian, talk to me," she insisted. It still took him another moment.

"Charlie. He pulled me out," he said weakly. 

"Yes," she said softly.

"He tried to warn me, but I didn't . . . " he trailed away. He thought of the friends, close associates, and even relatives who had been on the station and on that shuttle with him, particularly Raolf Motti, his second-in-command. He had known Typhani's younger cousin since he was only ten years old--they had helped raise him--mentoring him through the loss of his father, the legendary Grand Admiral Selden Motti, and then his mother, and then through the Academy. After Raolf's graduation, Adrian took him under wing permanently, And then he remembered it was Raolf who had strapped him into the shuttle. "If I had only reacted just a couple of minutes sooner, we would have all . . . "

"Shhhhh, it's all right now," she told him. "That was a very long time ago." 

"No. It isn't all right," he said, and looked away, upset by his own error in judgment as much as the loss of his associates and the station itself. 

Typhani seemed surprised at his intense emotional reaction over the memories. The Adrian she knew pre-Yavin would have insisted that it was his officers' duty to protect him, and let it go at that. He would have told her sharply that Raolf knew full well what he was getting into, and that he had been on the station by his own choice. As she pulled a comforter over him, she remembered the discussion she and her family had on Bastion, during the evening when they were considering Viorska's proposal, about whether the ordeal may have changed Adrian's personality. 

"You just rest quietly," she told him. "I need to go check on Daala." To Typhani's relief, she lay sleeping quietly, breathing easily, her inhalers within easy reach on her night table. Adrian had drifted off as well by the time she returned to him. Typhani went into their sitting room and pulled the pocket doors closed behind her. She sat down tensely, contemplating the double-crisis she had just abated, and the scope of what was going to be expected of her in the coming future.

It wasn't long before the comm in their suite beeped, and Typhani picked it up quickly before it woke Adrian. "Oh, Scythi," she said to her daughter, relieved. Lyscithea could tell immediately that something was wrong. "Your father had a really bad episode this afternoon. He had downloaded some materials from Bastion, and whatever he was reading triggered something. He finally remembered leaving the station. He's all right now, but he really scared me," she explained.

"Where was Daala?" Lyscithea asked.

"That's another story. There's something wrong with her, Scythi, and I'm afraid it's bad," her mother explained, and then told her the rest of what had happened.

"Where was Raycellna?" Lyscithea asked, perturbed that her mother had been forced to handle both crises alone.

"She'd gone to the market. And, I didn't want to call security away from the perimeter or involve the command center staff out in the other wing. I don't want them to know . . . to know how vulnerable he still is," she said.

"Mother, you've got to get some more help in there, else you're going to end up on your back as well! A nurse, a medical droid, something!" Lyscithea insisted.

"I know," Typhani acknowledged, not wanting to admit such.

"Listen, I'm coming over there. Kormath is on Eriadu and Bharina has the day off, so I'll have to bring the boys, but I'm on my way, okay?" Lyscithea insisted.

"Good," Typhani said. "I think the boys might take your father's mind off things for awhile." By the time Lyscithea and her sons arrived, it was nearly Taeodor's bedtime anyway, and so he crawled up on the big bed with his Grampa Adrian, insistently thrusting a holoplate book reader at him.

"Oh, all right," he capitulated as he switched off the evening news on the holovision and loaded the cartridge for _The Three Little Ewoks_. "After all, it's been an awfully long time since I used to read to your mother and your Aunt Lyjéa when they were your age."

Wilhuff and Bevel, on the other hand, headed down the back hall toward the playroom when they noticed Daala in their grandfather's study, having resumed her work. They had brought a sizable fleet of toy spaceships along, and were carrying on a mock space battle when Daala noticed them.

"Hey, there, you two!" she called to them, her voice still quiet and raspy. 

"Do you have a cold?" Wilhuff asked as he entered his grandfather's study.

"No, I just lost my voice for a little while," she told them. Deep down, Daala regretted that she had never become pregnant, although she knew it had been for the best. 

"Will you tell us some more stories about some of your battles? I heard you did some really cool stuff!" Wilhuff asked.

Ah, the innocence of childhood, Daala mused. If they only knew . . . But they didn't know. To them, she was a glorious war hero who had valiantly defended their grandfather's legacy. She needed them.

"Okay," she said as she slid from the computer chair into the floor with them and spread out the assortment of toy spaceships. "Way out in the Outer Rim, there is this really disgusting planet called Mon Calamari where these slimy, squid-like, Rebel-scum aliens live," she began. The two boys sat fixated on her, wide-eyed.

After she finished the story of Mon Calamari, Daala took one of Wilhuff's spaceships and positioned it between two of Bevel's, as if Bevel's ships were closing in. She looked decisively at Wilhuff. "All right, now what are you going to do?" she asked.

"Uh . . . I don't know," Wilhuff said, looking up at Daala, perplexed.

"Well, then, you just got captured by the Rebels, and they will execute you." Daala explained. She then reversed the configuration and asked Bevel the same question. He sat thoughtful for a moment, studying the toy ships intensely. 

"Jump to light speed!" Bevel exclaimed. He then picked up his ship, moved it ahead of the other two, then smashed the two opposing ships together while making an exuberant explosion sound that only kids can make. "Dead Rebels!" Bevel exclaimed, grinning widely. Daala's mouth dropped open, and she stared in awe at the six-year-old genius who sat before her. Even a child's computer game had taught him about the vortex that is created when a large ship jumps to light speed, and that such a maneuver can cause a suction effect that will pull any objects behind the ship into a weak singularity, usually destroying them. That's why you never pursue an enemy too closely, not unless you can knock out their hyperdrives first. Basic freshman stuff from Carida. Only then did she fully realize the risk that Bel Iblis had taken in his attempt to capture her, and the utterly unnecessary one that she had taken in her attempt to get away from him. More blood on her inept hands. Masterful strategy--from a six-year-old. Of course, little Bevel hadn't intended to hurt her, but she again found herself devastated, and in need of her inhaler. 

"Good move, Bevel," she complimented the younger boy. "Why don't you two go on into the playroom now. I need to go upstairs for a little while."

"What did we do?" Bevel asked his older brother as they entered the playroom. 

"I don't know," Wilhuff answered, "But you have to come rescue me from the Rebels now," he said as they continued their games. 

As Daala sank into the chair next to her bed, she was certain that Adrian would strip her off all rank and position and send her packing straight back to Pedducis Chorios, alone--and dying. "Just don't hurt me, Adrian," she said aloud but softly. "I can't stand anymore pain."

Despite all of Typhani's assurances, Daala still feared Adrian's reactions to what she had done, and his reprisals for her errors. Even after being intimate with him years ago, she still did not realize that she was well inside the boundary of his personal sphere--the one and only place one could truly hope to survive his imperious ruthlessness. Few had ever learned this lesson, that the only way to be completely safe from Tarkin was to be extremely close to him. Very, very few, however, were ever allowed to get that close.

Daala finally rose and went into her bathroom to get into the steam shower, hoping it would again soothe her tired and burning lungs. Just as she was about to turn on the water, though, her chest began to close up on her all over again. She started back for the inhalers on her night table, but caught herself on the edge of the vanity as she nearly stumbled, coughing and gagging uncontrollably. No air. She wasn't going to make it this time. The room began to spin and fade to black as she crumpled to the floor.

Downstairs, Lyscithea rounded up her sons in preparation to leave for the evening. "Mother, I really wish you'd consider what I said earlier, especially if Daala is ill," she insisted, hoisting a very sleepy Taeodor to her shoulder.

"I know, Scythi. I'll start looking into it tomorrow," Typhani assured her daughter, then went up to bed.

"Is Daala all right?" Adrian asked her when she came to bed.

"Yes, I think so. She was back downstairs finishing whatever it was she was working on," Typhani told him.

"I wonder which time it happened," he speculated. "She could have some very serious long-term problems from that, depending on what she inhaled."

"I don't know," Typhani said as she turned off their lights. "She so very sensitive and closed-up about her past. And another thing concerns me about her. She doesn't vent. After everything that has happened to her, she seems to still be holding it all inside."

"She's always been that way," he told Typhani. "It might be good for you to try with her, though. But I'll warn you that I'm afraid if she starts, she'll never stop. I got her to open up once about everything that had happened to her at the Academy, and that was an all-night affair."

"I don't care for you choice of words, Adrian," Typhani teased him.

"Now what did I say?" 

"_All-night affair!" _

"Oh, don't you even go there," he said, swatting playfully at her. "You know, speaking of unpleasant memories, looking back on it the way things are now, it seems so unnaturally disgusting, almost as if it were Scythi or Lyjéa. Sometimes I just can't believe we thought up something like that, and that I actually, well, you know."

"I've thought the same thing about her. Right after I brought her here, I remember wishing that you'd just brought her home and that we'd simply taken _her_ in instead of sending her to the Installation and trying for a surrogacy." Typhani revealed.

Seemingly surprised, he turned slightly to face her, now able to manage it a little better. "I actually considered it, but by that point, we had already . . . done the deed."

"We really screwed up, Adrian," she told him. "We're very fortunate that we can see what happened for the mistake it was, and that it hasn't ruined our marriage. But I told Daala once that if it had, we would have deserved it."

"Our bond is stronger than that," he reminded her. "If you recall, we discussed that, whether we could withstand it. On that note, at least, we were right." And then they drew customarily close to one another as they drifted off to sleep.

Daala stirred around midnight. She could breathe, slightly, but now the deep, burning sensation had been replaced by a painful, aching pressure with intermittent stabbing pains. She had never blacked out from it before. Her head throbbed and waves of nausea coursed through her midsection. It was time to get help, she knew. But then she remembered all too fearfully what the doctors had told her last time . . . 

"Not now!" she demanded of herself with staunch resolve as she pulled herself stiffly from the cold bathroom floor and made her way to her bed. "This can't happen to me now! It wont!" It would be just another reason, she feared, for Adrian to send her away. He had no tolerance for weakness among his military personnel, she remembered. 

To her ultimate relief, her episode as well as Adrian's had subsided by the following day, and for the next couple of days, all went well. Then it at last came time for the inevitable. Adrian had gathered her entire field history. He needed to know how seriously she had been injured and if her overall health was compromised, so that he could accurately assess how much responsibility to give her, or even if he should move her to another position. Even though Typhani had summarized everything for him, he was indeed most displeased with what he had found. In many instances, Daala had been taught enough to know better, and he was reacting quite strongly.

"Close the door, Daala," he told her sternly when she came back from the command center. She glanced over at his terminal as she did so, and readily recognized the end of the file on the screen. She went white and her knees almost buckled. "Sit down. Right here," he demanded, indicating that she should take the chair right next to him at the computer as he scrolled back to the top of her file.

Too close, she thought, but she reluctantly complied. His scooter was across the room on the other side of the desk, and so she could get away from him quickly if she had to.

"Let's start with generalities. Your own private little war," he said precisely, and looked away from her. His disapproval cut her to the very soul, as she always knew it would. "What in the universe were you possibly thinking, Daala?"

She swallowed hard. Her voice came quiet and raspy again. She did not look at him. "I . . . um . . . I just wanted to hurt the Rebels as much as I could for what they had done to the Empire. I knew I had no chance of defeating them, so I just wanted to cause damage. Lots of it."

"Well, you certainly accomplished that, but what was your master plan? Your overall strategy? Your end goal? What did you want to come of all that damage?" he asked. He knew there was none, and that infuriated him. Strategic planning was the first concept he had ever taught her.

Daala looked down into her lap and answered him only with her silence.

"I thought so. Daala, had you forgotten everything I ever taught you?" he admonished her harshly. Again, and as usual, Daala forced her hot tears deep inside. She would endure this because she deserved it.

He continued angrily. "All right then, let's start back at the beginning. So the Rebels who had stumbled into the Maw took off with Qwi and the Sun Crusher. Now, Daala, you knew full well that that weapon had impenetrable armor and capabilities that could damage your fleet or be turned against the lab itself, and yet you took off after them straight away with no plan and _all _of your resources, leaving the lab utterly unprotected! And to make matters worse, you didn't even get out of the Maw without such a major loss. If you had only taken the time to _think _and _plan_, and left the _Hydra_ behind to protect the Installation, not only would it have not been lost, but it would have been there when you got back from your little escapades with the _Gorgon_. With two Destroyers and the prototype, you could have easily routed the Rebels. I'm afraid your only saving grace in this instance is that you had enough presence of mind to core-dump the computers!" Daala thought back painfully to Tol Sivron's pleas for her to leave him some protection at the lab.

Adrian continued, his voice taking on a very sharp edge. "So let's move on to Calamari, shall we? How many times had I warned you about Ackbar? I think you conveniently forgot where he was from in your effort, as you put it, to cause lots of damage. And then all you managed to do was hit civilian targets and lose the _Manticore_. Mine or not, ten-year-old tactics, Daala? Wouldn't _you_ have figured them out by then?" He sighed and looked away in disgust. Daala drew even deeper into herself.

"And the _Jedi_, Daala? What sort of asinine stupidity had gotten into your head! Of what possible value was _that_ target! Lord Vader and I had wiped the Jedi out of this galaxy before you were even born. A handful of them camping out in the jungle should have been of no concern to you. You had finally gotten your hands on a ship bettered only by the _Executor_ and the station itself, and you let damaged fighters back on board in the _middle_ of your battle, if you can call it that? You knew better! You _never_ do that! I just got off the comm with Gilad. You nearly got both of you killed in that debacle!" But the pilot of that fighter had been a woman, Daala recalled silently. She never knew that it was the Jedi woman Callista herself that she had let on board, and that Callista had used her fighter and a hanger bay of others to blow the entire backside out of the _Knight Hammer_, and fill her lungs with burning toxins.

Adrian was getting a bit carried away by this point. "And Bel Iblis! Why, Daala, why didn't you just jump to hyperspace? You would have crushed _both_ of Bel Iblis' ships and saved the crew who ended up having to save _you_! My little _grandsons_ are better at tactics than that. Little Bevel craves praise and attention. He showed me what he did," he criticized her coldly. Daala began to wring her hands and bit her lower lip to contain her emotions. He continued. "It seems I was very wrong about you." That stab was too much. "Or there was something else going on that I don't understand," he said, yet allowing her a chance to explain. "Is there something you're not telling me?" he asked, and then he reached out toward her chin to make her look at him again. Afraid that he was going to strike her as her nightmares had so often demonstrated, she cried out and raised her hands protectively to her face, then turned out of the chair and ran from the room, one hand going to her chest.

Adrian realized then that he'd lost his temper. "Oh, no," he said, glancing around to see where his scooter was. "Daala, come back!" he called after her. He had judged his timing badly, and forgotten about how she might react. Typhani and Lyscithea had gone into town, and Raycellna had just left to go to Ultimart. He thought once about calling the command center, then decided against it for the same reason Typhani had. Even if Kormath or Dwyll were home, or could send Bharina, it would be nearly an hour before they would arrive. And worse, the remote to activate his mobility assist droid was on his table in the upstairs sitting room. He'd been feeling a little stronger lately, had even been pushing himself around in the office chair with his feet, and knew he had to get to his hoverscooter and get upstairs--quickly. 

Looking around again to quickly map out the route he would have to take, he put the heels of his hands against the computer credenza and pushed backwards. Fortunately, the rolling office chair moved easily, and he was able to turn around and reach his desk. He pulled himself around the edge of the desk, and then pushed off again in the direction of his scooter. Now he had a problem. The seats were at different elevations, and the arm on the office chair did not move, preventing him from simply grabbing the handlebars of the scooter and pulling himself across. There was only one way. He had to try. He could hear Morgana's encouragement again as he pulled himself as close to the scooter as he could get. He would only have to stand for a second or two--surely he could manage that. He raised the arm on the scooter seat that was closest to him, put the brake on, then grasped the handlebars as firmly as he could. He looked down to make sure he would have the most secure footing he could manage, then pulled up hard. The office chair rolled away behind him, and he landed at a sideways angle, halfway in the scooter seat and half out. He gathered enough strength then to grab for the other armrest, then finally managed to pull himself upright. Nearly breathless himself, he backed out of his study and headed for the lift.

Daala lay face down across her bed, coughing hard and gasping for air, her inhaler clutched tightly in her hand. She hadn't bothered to close or lock her door because she didn't think he could get to her. She nearly jolted herself off her bed, badly startled when she heard the hoverscooter enter her room. Adrian came alongside the bed and reached for her, but she pulled away from him. "I'll go!" she said tightly between painful gasps for air. "I'll go, just don't hurt me!" Horrible images flooded back of what he had done to others who had failed him.

He seemed alarmed. "What?" he asked. "Do you think I would harm you?" She doubled over again, coughing hard. "Daala, you can't go anywhere like this! Besides, you _aren't _going anywhere. Im not going to send you away. And I wasnt finished talking to you," he assured her. She raised her head then, and he could see clearly that the handful of tissues she held, as well as the front of her blouse and the bed comforter, were spattered with small droplets of blood. Daala stared down at the stained tissues in her hand, then looked back up at Adrian, deep fear in her emerald eyes. 

Adrian then moved beside her night table, picked up the comm port, and alerted the guards at the security perimeter to send the medics in, telling them, "Admiral Daala has become quite ill." He then called Typhani on her mobile transponder. To his relief, she and Lyscithea were just then coming around the corner toward the security perimeter.

Typhani and Lyscithea ran into the room on the heels of the two medics, who hovered intensely over Daala. "Not again!" Typhani exclaimed, and almost pushed one of the medics out of the way to get to Daala.

"We need to get her into town," the other medic alerted them. "She needs a respiratory therapist--fast!"

Later that evening, Adrian and Typhani sat on either side of Daala as she rested and recovered from this latest episode. Typhani caringly sponged at her face with a cool, damp cloth. "Any ideas?" she asked. "She seemed fine when we left."

"Oh, I . . . I think I might have set her off this time. We were, well, reviewing things. I'm afraid I got a bit coarse with her," he admitted. They thought Daala was asleep, but she weakly opened her eyes and looked up at Adrian.

"I thought they had killed you," she said quietly, barely above a whisper.

He looked down at her in renewed understanding, and took her hand. "Is _that_ what it was all about?" he asked. She mustered a small nod.

"The leader of that Jedi camp," she continued, her words labored. "He was the one who fired the torpedoes into the Death Star's reactor. He's the one who hurt you, Adrian. I just wanted him and his kind out of the universe!"

"Shhhh, this is too hard for you," Typhani consoled her.

Adrian just shook his head and smiled down at Daala. "Well, if you'll rest and get over this, perhaps we can accomplish that and worse the second time around," he encouraged her. She nodded again, and managed a slight smile herself.

On their way home for the night, Adrian told Typhani, "Did we _ever_ mess up! Her entire botched career has been a personal vendetta over me."

"She's not the only one," Typhani assured him. When they reached the house, she went into her private office and came out with a datacard. "It's time you saw this as well," she said. Adrian put the datacard into his mobile computer and read the summary of Darth Vader's scathing report about the circumstances and aftermath of the Thirteenth Imperial Diplomatic Conclave, the disaster hosted by one obsessively bereaved Lady Tarkin the year following the Battle of Yavin. "And not one single pellet of our megonite has ever gone to the Rebels," she told him when he finished reading the report, "not even during the recession following the peace accord."

Adrian was absolutely beside himself. He couldn't help but realize how fortunate he was, to be so loved. But as he read on, as Typhani started to doze off next to him, his feelings of warmth and affection turned to anguish.

"Interrogation . . . " he read aloud, looking sharply down at his wife.

She opened her eyes abruptly. "That's in there?" she asked, it having been many years since she had reviewed the conent of the report.

"Darth actually put you through that!?" Adrian seethed angrily.

"Yes."

He set the computer on the night table and pulled her to him, grasping her by the shoulders. "How?"

She averted her eyes and swallowed hard, obviously haunted by the memory. "The scan grid . . . and the mind probe. He took me aboard the _Executor_. He said that he had to have definitive proof of what I knew and when I knew it, and that a complete interrogation was the only way. He'd been so kind to me, but then he turned savage again. Cos laid most of the blame for Yavin on him, you see. I--I didn't think I was going to leave that ship alive . . . "

He clutched her protectively close. "I feel so terrible that you had to go through something like that, especially alone. If that's not a testament to your strength . . ." He trailed away, unable to find words that could provide adequate comfort.

"Shea was with me. He helped me through it. I thought for a moment that he was going to try to take Darth on." Her fingertips moved to her temples. "Next to Scythi's birth, that was the most excruciating experience I ever had!"

"I know, Typhani. I know." This time, it was he who rocked her. The mind probe droid concept had come to fruition in the Maw. It revulsed him to learn that technology that came from his own research lab had been turned against his wife by those who were supposed to be his allies. What other atrocities, he thought, would yet come back to harm them? He, like Daala, had become a victim of his own viciousness.

They brought Daala home from the medcenter two days later, but she would require numerous regular follow-ups. Wrapped tightly in a warm robe, she stepped tentatively into Adrian's study as he sat at his desk stamping documents, now that his official seal had finally arrived.

"There you are," he acknowledged warmly as she stood in the doorway with her arms folded across her chest. "Feeling better?"

"Yes, thank you," she said in her now permanent quiet voice. "Adrian, I can understand if you don't want me around, or if you want to assign someone else . . . " She looked away.

He hovered around the desk toward her. "Nonsense, Daala," he said as he approached one of the large leather chairs in the sitting area and indicated for her to take the other next to him as he transferred into the one he had chosen. She just watched him, wide-eyed.

"Yes, I figured out the other day that I can do this by myself now. Thank you for alerting me to that," he told her. She had not even thought about how he had gotten back onto his scooter and upstairs. She sat down next to him.

"Daala, I know you've had a very rough time. I'm sorry you had to experience that. But there are things far worse. I would . . . " he began, then looked away. "No I wouldn't."

"What?" she asked softly, perplexed by his conversation.

"I was going to say that I would gladly trade records with you, but I certainly wouldn't wish such horrors on you," he said.

"Adrian, what are you talking about? You've had a glorious history," she reminded him.

"In the field, of course, well, except for Yavin. That's not what I meant," he said quietly.

"What, then?" she asked, growing concerned. 

"When I found out I had been promoted to Moff of the Seswenna Sector shortly after Ghorman, I made a special trip home to Eriadu to tell my father myself. After thirty-seven years of trying, I thought that perhaps at last I'd met his expectations. My new status as a worthy son lasted less than five minutes. We didn't know that he had an aneurysm near the base of his brain. It burst in the excitement of the moment, and he collapsed, dead before he ever hit the floor. Ever since then, I have endured persistent Rebel rumors that I killed my own father. That only fueled my anger and hatred toward them, and, of course, it was only the beginning of our differences. 

"You lost five ships, if we attribute the scrapping of the _Gorgon_ to wear and tear. Granted, it is a difficult thing to lose five ships over a career, but it is far, far worse to lose five children over a lifetime, for seemingly no reason at all. And to watch the one person you love and care about more than anyone else in the universe suffer and struggle through that, nearly losing her own life in the process, and to know there is nothing you can do about it--there is no greater sense of loss or defeat or helplessness in the entire galaxy. You know, I would have just as soon lost five Death Stars to have all of my sons and daughters here with me now.

"And then our struggles with Lyjéa. She has always been so much closer to me. I could do all of these wonderful and awe-inspired things, could build any kind of superweapon imaginable, could plan tactics for any battle possible, but I couldn't fix her vision." His tone became more tense as he continued. "How do you comfort an eight-year-old who has just come out of major brain surgery crying out for her father, when the doctors have just told you that it has been for nothing!" He looked away and was quiet for a long moment.

"Then I would go to the war and take it out on the Rebels," he continued. "I suppose they have always wondered why I am the way I am. Ruthless, cold, heartless, cunning, unfeeling, evil, and whatever else they choose to call me these days. They don't deserve to know. After all, how can you care for Rebels when your heart's full stock of feelings are so sorely needed at home? The Rebels are the cold, heartless, unfeeling ones, instigating insurgency, destroying order, interrupting normalcy, causing wars that draw so many away from where they're needed the most! They won't get away with it, not in the end."

Daala looked on at him in awe and admiration, her understanding of and respect for him deeper than it had ever been. She had meant to ask him about something.

"About Lyjéa," she began. "You told me back at the lab that her blindness is due to a head injury. I was wondering whether the new cell regeneration formula they gave you on Lumin might help her?"

He stared at her for a long, silent moment. "There, you see, Daala!" he finally said. "Now do you understand how important you are to us?" 

Meanwhile, the Yuuzhan Vong began to set their sites on a distant border . . . 

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	13. A Struggle Greater Than Any Battle

**Chapter 13:**

**A Struggle Greater Than Any Battle**

"Where is Daala?" Adrian asked as he logged in to one of the computer terminals in his study. He'd just gotten more disturbing reports from the New Republic, and the time had come to begin making official contingency plans for dealing with the Yuuzhan Vong.

"She went into town this morning," Typhani replied, straightening some things on the credenza. "I think she had a follow-up. And don't forget, you have one In a few days. We need to begin preparing for the trip back to Lumin." He wasn't looking forward to that.

"Daala didn't go into town by herself, did she?" he asked with a twinge of concern.

"I'm not . . . sure . . ." she said just as Daala came into the room, trembling visibly, no color in her face. Adrian turned around then. Daala looked utterly shattered, a look such that neither of them had ever seen before, on anyone. Typhani went to her. "Daala, what is it? Are you all right?" she asked.

She shook her head, and sank down on the sofa. Typhani sat down next to her and put an arm around her as Adrian came over to join them. "What's wrong, Daala?" Typhani asked again. 

She looked back and forth between them. Now they could tell that she was fighting back tears, and that very much out-of-character behavior concerned them all the more. Typhani quickly got up to close the study door, then came back to Daala and took her shaking hands. She finally got it out, "I . . . have to . . . have a . . . a transplant--both lungs . . . " Her head sank as Typhani and Adrian shot alarmed looks at each other. Typhani pulled her close. She was fighting it hard now, too hard, and her hands went to her chest in a futile attempt to stifle the pain.

"Let it out, Daala," Typhani encouraged her.

"It's all right. It's just us here. You can't keep holding everything inside anymore. It isn't good for you," Adrian said as he transferred off of his scooter onto the sofa. He and Typhani ensconced Daala in their mutual embrace, as if they could somehow heal her. 

"Let it go now. You need to let it all out, all the past, everything that's done this to you," Typhani urged her gently again, and pulled her a little closer. Adrian reached down into her bag and handed her a newly refilled inhaler in case she needed it.

Daala had never been one to let her tears flow freely. She had always forced them back through sheer strength, converting them to some other form of energy, such as anger or resolve. But now, after so many years of defeat--and now with her own body defeating her--her strength was utterly gone. Her weakened internal floodgates were about to break, and she knew not whether she would ever be able to rein them in again . . . 

At first, only a few tight sobs broke through, and she clenched her fists as her entire body tensed, as if she were somehow giving birth to her own anguish. Then, at last, she cried out openly and reached for Adrian, the only real protector she had ever known. "We'll take you back to Lumin," Adrian assured her, pressing her head to his shoulder. "You'll get only the best, and you'll be all right. We'll help you through this." He and Typhani made no effort to stop her, but every effort to comfort and reassure her. Three days later, they disembarked for Lumin, fully expecting to be back home on Phelarion by the end of the week. 

The Rebels would have had great fun if they had even known that the mighty and illustrious Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin was so claustrophobic. After a normal battery of initial exams and tests and the like, it was time for what he dreaded the most about this follow-up, another HLI, or holographic laser imaging, scan. Although it took over three hours to complete with the subject fully enclosed and immobilized in a cramped cylindrical chamber, this advanced procedure rendered a highly detailed three-dimensional hologram of the individual in which layers such as skin, muscle, and various organ systems could be edited out of the resulting image, allowing closer and unobstructed observation of target systems or areas. This time, the scan would reveal how well the cell regeneration treatment had actually worked, and whether any problems remained, or if any new ones had taken hold. Getting Adrian through it was another matter altogether. The last time, the doctors had finally resorted to a mild general anesthetic, and decided to do so again this time as well. 

With Adrian well occupied for the next four hours, Typhani went to Daala. By this time, she was slowly coming out of her own anesthetic. Entering her body between the ribs with a laparoscope, the surgical droids had taken segments of what little healthy tissue remained from the exterior of each lung, where there was less damage from the chemicals, to grow new lobes for transplant in about six to eight weeks. Overall, the news was not good; Daala had only ten percent of her lung capacity remaining, and her sinus cavities, throat, and trachea were also heavily scarred. Now if only her cultures would grow fast enough to save her. 

She was only barely conscious, but Typhani could tell she was in pain. Even though she knew it would put Daala right back to sleep, she took the analgesic self-administrator from her hand and depressed the button for her.

They would be staying overnight, and so, while Daala was still sleeping, Typhani rose to go back to Adrian's room to make sure the servant droid had prepared their things for the evening. She was about halfway down the hall when Tierra Keldwyyn unexpectedly came up behind her. "Tierra! How are you? It's good to see you," she acknowledged. Typhani thought Tierra had merely spotted her, and had come to greet her. But then she noticed the look on her face.

Tierra reached out and took Typhani by the arm to steady her. "There's a problem," she began. As she had expected, Typhani panicked.

"What's wrong?" she asked pensively, then called out, "Adrian!" She pulled away and started to run down the corridor. Tierra quickly overtook her, stepped In front of her, and grasped her by both shoulders this time. She led Typhani into Adrian's room and forced her to sit down on the bed.

"We've already taken him out of the scanner and down to surgery," Tierra continued, but did not let go of Typhani, who winced violently at that comment. "The scanner located an aneurysm, here," Tierra continued, and then reached around to touch Typhani at the base of her skull on the right side. "It was not in immediate danger of bursting, but space flight and the type of stress hes dealing with could cause it to rupture unexpectedly, so we have to get it now. We're going to route some healthy artery around it, and then remove it, and so he should be fine again in a few days. There's no cause to panic. We're taking care of him," she concluded.

Typhani was shaking uncontrollably. "That's the same thing that killed his father!" she cried.

"Yes, we know. That's also why we decided to act so quickly, It should only take a couple of hours, though," Tierra explained. She sat with Typhani for awhile until she calmed down. But just as Tierra was about to leave, they heard a commotion in the corridor outside the room. Another patient had coded just down the hall. Instinctively, Typhani knew.

"Daala!" she called out, and tore herself away from Tierra. The scene horrified Typhani as she raced into the room. Daala's lungs had unexpectedly filled with fluid, and three druids, two nurses, and a doctor hovered over her. Her jaw had clamped shut such that they couldn't separate it to draw the fluid away, and so one of the nurses had put her head back as it looked as though one of the surgical druids was about to cut her throat.

"Come on, you don't want to watch this," Tierra said, and led Typhani reluctantly out of the room. They sat down on a bench in the corridor. 

Typhani slumped forward with her head in her hands, and burst Into tears. "What am I going to do!" she cried.

"She'll be all right. They just have to get the fluid off. This happens sometimes," Tierra assured her. Within the hour, Daala was indeed settled again, and they let Typhani go back to her. She was awake this time, but with a bacta patch across her throat and unable to speak, there was only pain and fear, an thin tears, in her eyes. Then she noticed that Adrian was not there, and sensed from Typhani that something else had gone terribly wrong. She just put a soothing hand across her forehead and depressed the analgesic button again. 

Typhani then went to the medcenter's communications tower where she could get a secure channel out to Bastion, to call Gilad, and then her daughter on Phelarion.

"Is he all right?" Lyscithea cried in utter panic, reaching up to take her husband's outstretched hand. "Both of them?" she continued. "I can't get away! I have meetings about three new contracts tomorrow, and the quarterly fiscal briefing, and--" Kormath put his arms lovingly and protectively around his wife at that point. "Yeah, yeah, I'll get hold of Lyjéa and Aunt Morgana, just let me know what's going on, okay? Yeah, Mom, I love you, too. I just wish I could be there." Lyscithea then relayed the family's latest horrors to her husband. Kormath sighed and shook his head. He didn't know how much more his mother-in-law could take.

In their loft condominium on Eriadu, Lyjéa and Sabine lounged in their whirlpool spa, engaged in idle conversation. "My mother is in universal bliss," Lyjéa commented. "She has people to take care of again." At that, the comm beeped, and Sabine put down her wine glass to reach for it.

"Oh, hi, Scythi," Sabine greeted warmly to the voice on the other end. "Yeah, she's right here. What's wrong?"

Sabine handed the comm to Lyjéa, and Lyscithea explained the current crisis to her sister. "Scythi, it's all right, I understand that you can't get away. I can go. I'm not teaching this semester, remember?" Lyjéa reassured her sister. She then relayed the urgent circumstances to Sabine.

"Oh, my goodness," Sabine commented as she climbed out of the spa. "Isn't that the same thing that happened to your grandfather?"

"Yes, but thank the universe they've caught this one in time. A few more days and everything we've gone through could have been for naught," Lyjéa said, feeling for her robe.

Back on Lumin, Tierra and two druids were transferring Adrian from a recovery stretcher into bed. "Your Excellency, you've had a very close call," Tierra said softly as she pulled the blankets up. He was finally coming around.

"Tierra?" he asked, then reached up toward the back of his head. 

"No, don't touch that, and stay on your side. We can't put any pressure on it right now," she said as she pulled his hand away from the dressing.

"What . . . " he began, but then tensed up as a sharp, stabbing pain shot through his head. Tierra put his own analgesic self-administrator in his hand. By that point, he knew very well what it was and how and when to use it, but didn't understand why he presently needed it.

"The scanner found an aneurysm, similar to your family history. We had to take care of it immediately, but it's gone now. You should be back to normal in a week or so," she assured him.

"Typhani . . . " he called out weakly.

"She's sitting with Admiral Daala. I'll get her," Tierra said, and then left the room to get Typhani.

Tierra found Typhani sitting next to Daala, holding her hand, and talking softly to her. "Lady Tarkin," Tierra said softly to get her attention, then motioned for her to come. Typhani pulled Daala's blankets up and stroked her head reassuringly as she got up to leave.

"What am I to do with you two?" Typhani asked lovingly as she sank down next to her husband and grasped his hands tightly. 

"Is she all right?" he asked.

Typhani felt it best to be honest. "No, Adrian, she's not doing well," she said, and then explained to him all that had transpired that afternoon, and assured him that Gilad and the rest of the Council had been alerted to what happened. 

Late in the night, Rohmm Cydras came in to get Typhani to assist them with keeping Daala calm. Her lungs had filled again . . . 

When Lyjéa arrived the next morning, her security detail assisted her in locating her mother. Typhani was still with Daala, and she looked utterly haggard and exhausted. She was thankful her daughter couldn't see that. "Just take care of your father," Typhani told her.

"But Mother, you should be with him. I'll deal with Daala," Lyjéa insisted.

"You can't," Typhani began to explain. "She's got a tube in her trachea to keep the fluid drawn off her lungs, and so she can't speak to you." Lyjéa winced at that. She knew it was bad, but she hadn't expected that.

"All right," Lyjéa said quietly, and ducked into her father's room. He was awake, but still a bit off-kilter. "You've got to stop scaring us like this," she admonished him.

"I'd love to," he said as she sat down next to him, "but it seems that fate is intent on dealing me these blows." He was glad Lyjéa was there, that she had time to be there, yet his concern did not center on himself. He needed to speak with her about something important, and he told her so. "You mustn't give up just yet, Lyjéa," he said.

"What?" she asked, not following him.

"You have your tenure now, no?" he asked.

"Well, yes, but what does that have to do with anything?" she asked, still confused.

"It seems that, except for the little new problem I had yesterday, the cell regeneration treatment I underwent while I was here before has worked quite well," he told her.

"But you still can't stand or walk--you can still barely sit up without something to your back," she observed, but she understood his line of reasoning then. "Do you think it might work?" she asked, the realization dawning on her.

"I don't know, Lyjéa, like all the other things before, I don't know. But I do think you should try it. You're half Phelarian, and so you are still far too young to give up just yet," he reminded her. Lyjéa sat back in her chair in thoughtful contemplation. Her father was right. She could expect perhaps another seven to eight decades of life if she took good care of herself. 

It did not appear, however, that Daala would be as fortunate. Later that afternoon, Tierra gathered everyone in Adrian's room for a briefing on her circumstances and outlook. "We've pulled her records from the medcenter on Pedducis Chorios, and her lungs have been getting steadily worse for years, even with regular bacta breathing treatments. They are very weak now, and her condition is too volatile to let her go home. We're going to have to keep her here until her transplant," she said. She refrained from telling the Tarkins that the doctors on Pedducis Chorios had officially listed Daala's condition as terminal, with a twelve to eighteen month life expectancy without further intervention, which, of course, they were unable to provide on that desolate outpost of a world. Why, Tierra wondered, had she not sought help elsewhere, but she didn't voice this concern as it no longer mattered. Now Daala was in the capable halls of the famous Andromeda Center, and intervention was at hand--except that her most recent medrecords were already a year old. Tierra feared that she may have waited too long to seek help, but this too she kept to herself.

Adrian felt that he should go to her at that point, and so Tierra and Typhani got him up into a hoverchair and they moved their gathering to Daala's room for awhile. She noticed that Adrian looked pale and weak, but at least he was still there this time. Typhani had explained to her what had happened to him.

Although it took him a few days longer than they expected, he finally began to get his strength back to the point where it had been when the fateful scan began. He made plans to go to Bastion for awhile instead of traveling home to Phelarion, to make preparations for dealing with the Yuuzhan Vong should they overstep the Imperial Remnant's borders. Bastion was much closer to Lumin, and so he could get back quickly if need be. Typhani was, of course, uneasy about the trip, but she knew that the time had come for him to assume more of his duties as the new Emperor. "I shall have to meet specifically with Aerom Flennic," he told his wife with a hint of warning in his tone. Typhani was familiar with Flennic's military expertise, and she knew at once what her husband meant.

"Adrian, you'll kill Daala outright if you do that!" she insisted vehemently. 

He looked away. "We have to have a strong military presence with a clear chain of command In the leadership, Typhani. The Rebels will come at us if we don't. Or worse, we'll attract the attention of the Yuuzhan Vong. They're on a veritable rampage through the New Republic--they've just hit Kalarba--same result as Sernpidal. Soon, they'll be just the other side of the Unknowns and the local Chiss territory. We must be prepared. For now, I shall install Flennic on an interim basis until we know what, if anything, Daala will be able to do," he explained.

"And what if she can't do anything?" she asked, strong concern in her voice.

"Then we will take care of her," he assured her. "Typhani, Daala is a military officer. She will understand why I must do this. It may upset her on a personal level, but she will understand."

"I don't like sending you off like this," she said tightly.

"I know. I have to admit that my own confidence is at last a bit shaken by all that has happened, but we must move forward for the good of the Empire," he reminded her. Those words again. Words of perpetual sacrifice, they were. 

"Perhaps I should come with you?" she suggested.

"No. You said yourself that we can't allow Daala to feel abandoned again. She needs you to stay with her. I have the droid, and I'm staying with Paleb and Grendel, so everything will be fine." 

"Adrian, there's something I've been meaning to ask you . . . about the Vong. It's obvious that they're out to destroy the New Republic, and they detest Jedi as much as we do. I've never thought of it in this way before, but they just might be powerful allies. Perhaps we should . . . extend an invitation, establish relations," she speculated.

"Not with these aliens, Typhani. They want to wreak havoc on the _entire _galaxy and take it _all _for themselves. I initially thought the same thing, and I actually admired some of their strategies. I wish I had thought of some of them myself. Perhaps I wouldn't be sitting on this thing if I had. But I've seen the classified reports, and you're better off not knowing what I've read. They despise our technology as well as Jedi. Their methods and beliefs are nothing like ours, and neither are their ships or weapons. Our notion of standard warfare isn't very effective against them. We must develop new and different tactics if we are to defend ourselves, and that's where I come in. Besides, we've already participated in an attack against them. They aren't the kind to forget that." Typhani realized then that the situation was far more serious than she realized. Adrian continued as he pulled his briefbag up into his lap. "If not the Vong themselves, we'll likely be dealing with large influxes of refugees soon. Naturally, I suppose, the Imperial Remnant would be the last place New Republic refugees would want to come, but they're about out of places to run. I think they just might find our terms and conditions of asylum, reaffirming loyalty to the New Order, that is, preferable to extermination by the Vong. So perhaps you're right. Perhaps they're unwitting allies after all, if we can keep them from ravaging our own territory, that is. I have to go now." Then he reached out to her, one hand over her throat and the other over her solar plexus, and she reflexively returned the gesture.

Back on Phelarion, Lyscithea had finally come to a good stopping point in her current run of business meetings. "Kormath, can you handle the boys for a few days," she asked as she stepped into her husband's study. "I'd like to go to Lumin and give Mom and Lyjéa a break."

"Yeah, sure, but why the sudden concern? I didn't think you liked Daala," her husband reminded her.

"She's . . . one of us now," Lyscithea replied. "Dad feels responsible for her, after all she went through without him, and Mom's gotten very much attached to her. Empty nest syndrome, you know. Besides, the boys, they adore her. Anyway, I'm doing this for Mom and Lyjéa."

Little Bevel was near tears when his mother explained to him and his brothers where she was going and why. "Admiral Daala isn't going to die, is she?" he asked.

Lyscithea pulled her middle son into her lap as the other two drew close. "We certainly hope not, but she is very sick," she told them frankly.

"What's wrong with her? How come she's in the hospital" Wilhuff asked.

"She was in a battle once, before you were born, and the spaceship she was in caught fire. She accidentally breathed in some hot chemicals while she was getting out of the spaceship, and they burned her lungs very badly. So now she has to have an operation to help her breathe better. Grampa Adrian and Gramma Typhani are with her, and I'm going to go help them take care of her," Lyscithea explained. "So why don't you two go get on your computers and make her a couple of nice, bright get-well banners that we can put up in her room. Now you two run along while I call Gramma and let her know I'm coming."

Typhani welcomed Lyscithea's presence, and it also gave Lyjéa an opportunity to go home for awhile and discuss her father's idea with her domestic partner. Sabine was elated by the proposal, and wanted to know if she could have some cell regeneration formula as well. Full, true, sweet independence beckoned to the two blind women, more so to Sabine than to Lyjéa. The latter would settle for seeing her father's face just once. 

Although Daala seemed to cling to Typhani, she readily shrank from Lyscithea. She had sensed her animosity the first night they met. Daala understood that Lyscithea considered her a potential "home wrecker," and she could understand why. "I don't blame you for hating me," she said one morning when they were alone.

Lyscithea seemed startled by that. Yes, she had her suspicions and concerns, but nothing that ran that deep. "What? Daala, I don't hate you," Lyscithea assured her. "I just don't want to see my parents get hurt, especially now."

"I know," Daala acknowledged. "I wish I'd been able to know your mom before. I wish they had just come to me. I wouldn't have hesitated for a moment to help them give you another brother or sister."

Lyscithea then remembered her mother's frantic cries on the comm a few nights ago when both her father and Daala had become unexpectedly ill, and recalled as well her own sons' reactions. For the first time, Lyscithea allowed herself to feel what her mother had sensed that first night on Lumin, and she found herself able to look upon Daala as sort of a foster-sister. "Maybe you're doing that now," she suggested.

"Me?" Daala asked, as the realization came to her as well.

"They care very much for you, Daala. We all do." With that, Lyscithea pulled out the bright and colorful "Get Well Aunt Daala" banners that the boys had made. "See?" Lyscithea continued. "They think that destroying Rebels in space ship battles is 'way more cool' that firing some slacker moss harvester or giving a lazy student a big, red F!" She looked away for a moment as Daala took in the boys' colorful affections. "You've got to beat this, Daala," Lyscithea continued. "It'll tear Mom apart if you don't. And little Bevel, when I told him I was coming here, he cried because he was afraid you might not come back. So you see, no one hates you here."

Both of their heads turned then as the door to Daala's room opened. Lyscithea's thought was that her mother had not napped nearly long enough. 

"An Imperial Admiral flat on her back? 'Can't have that--not regulation!" Morgana quipped as she put her shuttle carryon bag down. Then to her niece, "I got away as soon as I could. I've about had my fill of that business, I tell you." Morgana's latest business venture was an aviary where she raised exotic birds, much to her family's relief. Morgana seemed to take on a new professional identity with each passing decade. During the decade before the aviary, she'd been a funeral director. Not a pleasant thought, Lyscithea mused, as she looked down at Daala.

Even though her breathing was always labored now, Daala seemed to be all right, as long as she just lay quietly, which, for once in her life, she seemed content to do. Typhani read to her and provided her with copious books and magazines, and she watched more holovision than she ever had before. Typhani grew very weary of military documentaries, and so Morgana would sit with her instead. This precarious equilibrium lasted only a couple of weeks, however. Then one afternoon, without warning, Daala's right lung finally gave out altogether, and the left one was no longer strong enough to support her on its own. 

"She's dying . . . " Typhani whispered to Morgana and Lyscithea as a medic droid wheeled the ventilator into the room. She turned to her daughter. "Go to the comm tower, get a secure channel out to Bastion, and call your father. Don't tell him how bad it is. Just tell him to come, quickly."

Typhani met her husband and Gilad in the hallway. Adrian could tell immediately by the look on her face that it was bad as soon as he hovered up to her. "They . . . um . . . they're not sure if she's going to make it," Typhani reported shakily. "They don't have time for her own cultures to finish growing, so now they're . . . they're looking for a compatible cadaver donor." The Empire had an effective system for stockpiling and cataloging donor organs, and with the war, there was little shortage. Upon a host's death, all usable tissue was removed and put into carbonite storage, each container bearing a data chip with all relevant information. This information, was, in turn, entered into a main computer where searches and matches could be achieved easily. This procedure shortened the wait time for patients in need from weeks to days, including retrieval and transport time. Alternately, cybernetic implants were available, but restrictively cumbersome and less effective. 

"This isn't happening," Adrian said in frustration as he hovered into the room behind his wife. Daala looked almost deathlike, now on full respiratory support. 

As Adrian and Typhani moved close to her, Gilad reached down and gently took her hand. It felt limp and lifeless. This was her ultimate defeat, he thought. Surely nothing worse than this could ever happen to her again. "Hang on, Daala," he urged her, hoping that she could hear him and knew that he was there. He had been there when all this started, and he remembered the day he picked up her lifepod after the destruction of the _Knight Hammer_. 

* * *

Daala had climbed out of the pod and promptly resigned under her own power, standing rigid before him until he completed his response to her. She took a couple of tentative steps toward him, then collapsed into his arms, her battered body wracked with convulsive coughing spasms, and he realized that the exchange that had just taken place between them must have consumed every nanogram of her strength to accomplish. He had also noticed that when she first stepped out of the pod. one side of her face had been smeared with blood, but he initially could not tell where it had come from. As she lay struggling and gasping for every short and labored breath, he realized that the blood was indeed her own, and that she was drowning in it. He knew at once that she had inhaled something very toxic, and that the toxins had been ravaging her system for days. Dehydration had further complicated her circumstances, as she had gone too quickly through her water in an attempt to quench the inferno in her lungs and throat. A few more hours, he realized, and they would have recovered only a corpse. She spent several days in sick bay recovering from the ordeal, and then went to spend the rest of her recovery with Stroma Veers. 

* * *

Two nights later, Adrian and Typhani were startled awake when Rohmm Cydras burst into the room the hospital staff had set up for them adjacent to Daala's and, in his upbeat way, announced, "We've got lungs! The shuttle's on its way in right now!" Although they knew full well that Daala might not survive the operation, they refused to say anything like good-bye to her as Rohmm and the others got ready to move her, sending her into their care with only soft words of encouragement and reassurance. 

"Don't give up, Daala. You'll be all right," Adrian assured her, knowing that his familiar advice had been well reinforced over the years..

"And we're not leaving you. We'll be right here when you come back, and you'll be able to breathe on your own again," Typhani added. Reluctantly, they let go of her as the druids took her away.

Adrian had never felt more responsible for what had happened to Daala as that long night crept by. He and Typhani sat side by side, handfast, and in silence. What energy they had was being directed elsewhere, as they'd done when they had entrusted Lyjéa to a similar medical team when she was only eight years old. Both thought about the similarity of the two circumstances, their emotions, their concerns, their fears, and, although neither spoke of it, each perceived the same sentiments from the other. In essence, in their hearts, they finally adopted Daala that night.

Early the next morning, and after two hours in recovery, two medic droids moved Daala back to her room, Typhani and Adrian in immediate pursuit. Typhani leaned over her and pulled her fur throw over her for warmth. "Daala, you need to wake up now. Where are those emerald eyes?" she said, gently stroking her face with the back of her hand. Daala was still under the heavy influence of the anesthetic, but she finally managed to open her eyes as Typhani hovered over her. "There you are," she said softly, reaching down to take her hand in her own and placing her other gently on the side of her face as Adrian stroked the top of her head. "You're going to be all right now, Daala. We love you and we want you with us. You're not an orphan anymore."

"I know," Daala whispered weakly. It would be several weeks before her voice would at last return to normal. Her shell, her guard, her former demeanor now completely stripped away by years of rejection, struggle, and defeat, Daala finally allowed herself to drink in their comforts utterly, even though Typhani was smothering her like someone a tenth of her age. Still, the frightened, deprived, rejected little girl still trapped deep inside her needed Typhani's affections, and Adrian's protection. In so many ways, in so many full circles of circumstance, they were at once everyone and everything to her. She looked up again, thin tears welling up in her eyes. "Typhani . . . hold me," she cried. 

"She's never known a mother's touch," Adrian told her. Typhani leaned close and gently kissed her on the forehead, then held her as closely as she could, being careful not to hurt her.

In their intense doting over her, Adrian and Typhani did not notice the man who had appeared briefly in the doorway, and then walked away, having faked his way past the security detail with the personal information he possessed. He hadn't wanted to disturb or upset Daala, or even see her for that matter. He only wanted to make sure that she would be all right after learning of her latest predicament. When he observed the Tarkins with her, no doubts remained in his mind that she would be. After all, he was the one who had stepped aside and sent her back to them. He knew then that he had done the right thing, and so he walked away once more, passing Morgana and Lyscithea on his way out, yet again releasing Daala into that which nurtured and fulfilled her.

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	14. Of Restorations and Discoveries

Chapter 14:  
  
Of Restorations and Discoveries  
  
When Daala stirred again, she sensed that someone had taken Typhani's place at her side, and it wasn't Lyscithea or Morgana. With the lingering anesthetic, it was still difficult to open her eyes, and everything was still blurry when she did. "Stroma?"  
  
"Daala, why in the universe didn't you tell me! I opened those so- called sealed instructions you left me," she said, moving closer to her best friend.  
  
"I didn't want you to worry," Daala defended.  
  
"Not until I came into your house one day and found you dead on the bathroom floor or something of the like? Why didn't you go for help before Typhani came?" she asked, almost accusingly.  
  
"There was no reason before she came," Daala told her blandly.  
  
"No reason?" Stroma echoed. "Daala, I knew it was bad, but . . . I mean, after everything you've been through, all the times you nearly went on us in a supernova of glory--to go like this, when you could still fight?"  
  
"It doesn't matter now," Daala told her. "I'll be all right."  
  
"Yeah," Stroma acknowledged. "And at last you're back where you belong."  
  
Daala realized something then, and raised her head off her pillow a bit. "It doesn't burn!" she said with elated relief as she took another deep breath. "For the first time in twelve years, it doesn't burn!"  
  
"That's wonderful," Stroma acknowledged. She'd taken Daala in as a favor to her late husband's close friend, Gilad Pellaeon, grown close to her, and watched her struggle with the recurrent breathing problem for over a decade. Stroma was glad that relief had come at last, and that the relief had ended in life instead of death. Just for once, Stroma reflected as she took her hand and squeezed it tightly in friendship, just for once in her life, Daala deserved to belong, and be happy.  
  
As Daala recovered, Lyjéa returned to Lumin to give her vision one last try. Fortunately for her, the process would not be nearly as lengthy or involved as it had been for her father. The doctors administered the cell regeneration formula at regular intervals directly into the arteries that fed her occipital lobe. And they waited . . .  
  
Although it would be months before Daala would regain her strength (she would never completely regain it), her recovery went fairly well. She would still need ample bedrest and close monitoring through follow-ups, but the Andromeda Center staff let the Tarkins take her home to Phelarion after only two and a half weeks, to coincide with the completion of Lyjéa's treatment. Daala made the trip well, as Adrian had before her, and she seemed to put down roots as they blanketed her into her bed.  
  
Lyjéa, on the other hand, accepted her situation once more, and returned to Eriadu in defeat and disappointment. Never again, she vowed. Like Daala, she had endured enough.  
  
Adrian had not been home to Eriadu since he woke up, and so, after settling Daala in, he and Typhani made the trip, concerned that Lyjéa had retreated there instead of coming home with her family for support. Her answer was simple enough. "I just needed to be reminded of what I have accomplished--of what I can still do," she said, caressing her tactile holoplate reader as she uploaded the syllabus for the coming term's classes. "I have lesson plans to make." Like her father, Lyjéa's way of dealing with personal adversity was to cast herself fully into her work. Still, she agreed to accompany her parents on her father's first visit back to Villa Galaxia, the family estate that had been in his control before Yavin.  
  
After Yavin, control of House Tarkin and Villa Galaxia passed first to Adrian's cousin, Nolan, and then to Nolan's son, the very competent and highly domineering Valdemar. Whether it would now pass back remained to be seen. Valdemar had orchestrated a very successful military career, having been a favorite of his older second cousin, the first Grand Moff. At twenty- four, Valdemar had just attained the rank of Commander when the Empire lost the first Death Star. Three years later, Valdemar's fleet was among the first to arrive at the assault on the Rebel base at Hoth. After the Rebels evacuated, the other Imperial officers allowed Valdemar and his flagship, the Retaliator, the "honor" of destroying the Rebel facilities.  
  
At Endor, Valdemar took out several Rebel ships, pulling back with Pellaeon and the Chimaera just in time as the Executor became disabled and plunged into the second Death Star. He prudently retired after Endor, not wanting to draw Rebel fire to Eriadu, and took up the restoration of Villa Galaxia. He had supported Sate Pestage, Ysanne Isard, Thrawn, and Gilad Pellaeon over the years, those who would defend the Empire and strive to bring back the New Order, those who would defend his family's legacy. For nearly a year after his divorce, he had secretly admired another with such purpose, following with intense interest the attacks on Dantooine, Mon Calamari, and Yavin IV. He had been on the verge of extending his support, and perhaps more, to the renegade female admiral when shameful rumors erupted across the galaxy. Now those nasty rumors had been laid to rest, but not the lady admiral . . .  
  
Adrian found coming home to Villa Galaxia quite pleasant, although tainted by his daughter's disappointment. Nolan, his wife Shayla Paige- Tarkin, and their children, Valdemar and his older sister, Raine, had indeed turned the place from a musty, gaudily overdone family compound, back into the tasteful and lavish exclusive resort it had been over two hundred years ago, having added numerous small guest houses and the now galactically famous spa to the grounds.  
  
As they made their way inside, Chantir rushed toward them, her small, black shoes making a clipping sound as she ran across the polished stone floor of the colonnade. "Adrian! You're all right! Is Admiral Daala all right, too? Daddy said--he said she might not--um . . . "  
  
"Yes, Chantir, she's going to be fine now. She's resting back at our house on Phelarion," Adrian assured his little cousin.  
  
"She has been so worried," a young woman who bore slight resemblance to Chantir commented as she came up to join the group.  
  
"I couldn't help it, Paige!" Chantir defended herself to her older sister. "Morgana wouldn't let me come with her."  
  
Adrian put the name to the face he had seen in the many holoplates he'd been shown of the extended family that grew in his absence. "Ah! The political science major. Following in your grandmother's footsteps, no?"  
  
"No, in fact not! I certainly want nothing to do with a seat in the Rebel senate!" Paige quipped with a smile. "It is so wonderful to finally meet you," she continued. "After all the years of stories and holograms--no one ever told us you were alive! Weldan and Gaston were just overwhelmed, and they can't wait to get leave so they can meet you as well."  
  
"They're both nerds!" Chantir interceded.  
  
"Chantir! Do not insult our brothers in front of our elders! Didn't you learn anything in those deportment classes Mom sent you to last year?"  
  
Chantir's head dropped.  
  
"That's better," Paige coached.  
  
"And how is your mother?" Adrian asked. Valdemar and Quentiri had married right out of prep school four years before Yavin, and then divorced fifteen years later after having four children together.  
  
"She's fine, thank you," Paige commented diplomatically. Adrian sensed that little love was lost between the girls and their estranged mother. She came from Muunilinst, and worshipped money and material objects to an unhealthy excess. The tabvids once rumored that Quentiri Tarkin possessed over 4,000 pairs of shoes and over 10,000 pairs of earrings. It was not Valdemar's ability to satiate her that drove them apart. Instead, Valdemar found Quentiri's excesses for the sake of excess wasteful, tiresome, and pointless, and, coming from a military family background, he found such traits against his grain. When the divorce came, Valdemar, a Tarkin to the core if ever there was one, somehow prevented Quentiri from gutting his family's fortune. No one quite knew the details of how he did it, but he and his ex wife had not spoken since. Valdemar retained residential custody of the children, yet he allowed Quentiri to see them, and them to see their mother, any time they wished.  
  
As Paige and Chantir both sought Lyjéa's tutoring on some writing assignments, Adrian and Typhani made their way upstairs and down the long, back hall through the family's private quarters. Despite the many changes at Villa Galaxia, their own apartments, those that had been Adrian's as he grew up there, remained largely untouched and unchanged, although Typhani had used them from time to time over the years.  
  
"I think it was nearly three years before I was able to come back here," Typhani commented as the sitting room door closed behind them.  
  
"Nolan kept you away?" Adrian asked urgently.  
  
"No, no, in fact, he and Shayla kept trying to coax me here. It was . . . the memories, you know." Typhani thought back to her very first visit to the sprawling and luxurious estate. Adrian had brought her home to introduce her to the rest of his family--whether they liked it or not, she mused. Over the years, the memories accumulated, watching holovids in the sitting room, planning the future of the Empire at the table by the bedroom window, making love on the balcony . . .  
  
"Yes." Adrian acknowledged. "We've shared much amidst these walls." He, too, recollected the first time he had escorted his soul mate into his "inner sanctum," and how he had almost proposed to her after their first intimate encounter on that balcony, but then thought better of it, opting for the mutual territory of their apartment on Coruscant instead.  
  
"Do you remember . . . " he continued, gazing out the glass paneled doors into the warm Eriaduan evening.  
  
"All too well," she mused, and drew close to her husband as they made their way onto the balcony.  
  
Villa Galaxia indeed held many pleasant and cherished memories for both of them. Nolan and his children had done well to preserve them and to maintain the family estate. All were in agreement that, in light of his efforts and accomplishments, Valdemar would continue to maintain Villa Galaxia, at least for the foreseeable future. However, everyone also knew who now controlled House Tarkin, and the distinction between the two.  
  
The Governor's Mansion on the other side of Eriadu City was another matter concerning its maintenance, or lack thereof. Of course, Typhani had emptied it of their personal belongings shortly after Yavin to make way for Ardus Kaine, but he rarely used the house. After his death, it had been used from time to time for overflow Seswenna Sector government offices and such, but had not been inhabited in years. Hence, the place would have to be completely redone. Another project for them, they knew, as they looked at the boarded-up structure from the overgrown front garden.  
  
After locating the plans for the Governor's Mansion and enjoying a final evening with family, Adrian and Typhani prepared to return to Phelarion. When they arrived, they found the security perimeter completely locked down, and guards flanked all of the exterior doors to the house.  
  
"Oh, no, now what?" Adrian snapped as more security detail on speeder bikes closed in around their transport. A tight formation of stormtroopers surrounded them as they made their way inside, where their bodyguard unit security chief approached them.  
  
"Your Excellencies, we have a problem, in the main reception room."  
  
They all turned their attention in that direction, and one of the two guards flanking the door opened it. Adrian and Typhani froze, and reached for each other's hands, stunned at the site of the middle-aged woman who sat bound to a chair in the center of the room, another guard standing beside her with a blaster to her head. She did not look up at them. The security chief continued. "We picked up her trail at the border and intercepted her at the spaceport. She didn't even bother to try to hide her identity. What do you want done with her? I can have a firing squad assembled shortly." Adrian waved him off and hovered into the room, Typhani close behind him.  
  
"Take this away, and leave us in private, please," Typhani told the guard with the blaster. She then reached down to release the binders that held the woman's hands behind her back. She still did not look up, but merely drew her arms around in front of her, rubbing her aching wrists. Typhani put a hand on her shoulder, and Adrian finally addressed her.  
  
"Rivoche?"  
  
Rivoche Tarkin raised her head to face her uncle then, her eyes filled with both shame and uncertainty. She didn't know what he would do with her, but, nonetheless, it was time to face her past.  
  
Adrian reached out and took his niece's trembling hand. "Why, Rivoche? Why the Rebels?"  
  
She looked directly at him then. "Because it was easier to hate you and leave you than to love you and lose you!" She looked away, fighting back her tears.  
  
The three of them looked up as the door to the reception room opened again. Kormath and Lyscithea had arrived, after dropping the boys off at their other grandparents' house for the evening, and Lyscithea came into the room to see what the problem was. She took about three steps, then also froze. Her face grew deep red, and she drew her fists up at her sides. "Get away from him!" she shrieked, and lunged at Rivoche.  
  
Her mother put an arm out to stop her. "It's all right, Scythi," she assured her.  
  
"It is not all right, Mother! She should be executed! Now!"  
  
"Let's go," Typhani insisted, leading her daughter out of the room, and leaving Adrian alone with his niece.  
  
"Don't leave him alone with her! Are you out of your mind, Mother! You guards get in there! Now!" Lyscithea screamed, half-hysterical. "How did she get here! How did she get through the perimeter! How did she get in the house!"  
  
"Scythi, calm down!" her mother demanded.  
  
"What's the problem?" Kormath asked as he joined them in the hallway outside the reception room.  
  
"Rivoche just came home," Typhani told him.  
  
"What! Are you okay?"  
  
"Yes, Kormath, we're fine. She's come home . . . at last, she's come home."  
  
"Just like that!" Lyscithea continued heatedly. "Mother, you are far too forgiving! You've gotten weak, you know. I'd rather have you the way you were during the Conclave than this! After all the damage she did, and she's come home? First Daala and now this! Why don't we all just declare open marriages and move to Coruscant!"  
  
"Hey, that's enough, Scythi. That's your mother you're talking to," her husband reminded her.  
  
"I know who I'm talking to, Kormath! The next thing you know, the blasted Solos will be here for dinner! You know what Rivoche did to Lyjéa! Mother, how could you!"  
  
By that point, Aerom Flennic and Ysanne Isard had just returned from Bastion, and heard the commotion in the hallway outside the reception room.  
  
"Is there a problem?" Aerom asked.  
  
"There certainly is!" Lyscithea snapped. "My father is alone in the reception room with a Rebel infiltrator!"  
  
Aerom snapped to attention and started to march a couple of steps forward, but Typhani caught him as well. "It's all right, Aerom. It's just our niece. Apparently, she's gotten her fill of Coruscant."  
  
"Well, maybe then that girl has some brains after all!" Ysanne commented. "She certainly didn't get them from her father!"  
  
Then the door to the reception room opened again. "Why don't we all go into the main living room and calm down," Adrian suggested as he dismissed the guards and moved in that direction with Rivoche following close behind.  
  
Lyscithea let out an exasperated sigh. "Aren't we leaving somebody out of this little equation? What is Lyjéa going to think of this?"  
  
"We shall have to call Lyjéa and let her know. Then we can ask her," Typhani assured her, and led her toward the living room. Lyscithea's stomach knotted in nausea and fear as she saw Rivoche sit down next to her father.  
  
"Look, I think I better get some air first," she insisted.  
  
"All right then," her mother agreed. "You may join us in a few minutes."  
  
Lyscithea turned on her heel and made her way out the kitchen door. She knew Kormath's briefbag was still in the back of the van. She retrieved what she needed, then went back into the house. The others had just begun a conversation when Lyscithea returned to find her rogue cousin now sitting between her parents. That was entirely too much for her.  
  
"Get away from them, Rivoche, now!" she snarled. Lyscithea then raised Kormath's blaster and pointed it in her cousin's direction. Nobody moved.  
  
"Now, Rebel!" Lyscithea demanded.  
  
Rivoche shakily forced herself to her feet, arms out at her sides, and slowly moved a safe distance away from Adrian and Typhani.  
  
"I always told that if you ever showed yourself around here again I'd kill you for what you did to my sister!" Lyscithea reminded her.  
  
The memories of that wet spring morning flooded back, and Rivoche broke down. "Get it over with, Scythi! I deserve it!" she shrieked, her knees trembling.  
  
Lyscithea aimed her husband's blaster squarely at Rivoche's chest. "That's right, Rebel scum! You more than deserve it!"  
  
"Scythi, put the gun down," Kormath said, trying to maintain a calm tone. Aerom and Ysanne rose and cautiously approached her from behind in a precise military disarming maneuver they had been well trained to execute back on Carida. Adrian immediately recognized what they were doing, and joined Kormath in trying to distract his daughter.  
  
"We don't destroy our own, Scythi," he said sternly.  
  
"Oh, no?" Lyscithea retorted, glancing quickly over at her father. "Maybe you'd better have Aunt Morgana explain that concept to Uncle Gideon! We destroyed the rest of this pathetic branch of the family! When part of a tree is diseased, you cut it off!"  
  
At that point, Aerom reached around and seized Lyscithea's wrist, raising the blaster safely into the air, as Ysanne grabbed her about the legs and midsection to immobilize her.  
  
Rivoche sank to the floor in sobs, and Typhani went to her. "It's all right now," she assured her niece. "You're home now." She led Rivoche back over to the sofa as Kormath worked his blaster from his wife's tenacious grip and led her out of the house.  
  
Outside, Lyscithea stood with her back to the wall, breathing hard. "I can't let this happen, Kormath!"  
  
"Let your father handle it," he advised her calmly.  
  
"He can't handle it!" she cried. "He can't even walk and can barely sit up by himself!"  
  
"Then how is he going to handle the Empire? Or the Vong?"  
  
Lyscithea looked away, rubbing her head. Kormath took her home.  
  
Meanwhile, inside, Typhani and Rivoche glanced up toward the top of the main staircase when they saw something move. Rivoche didn't recognize the woman leaning against the upstairs wall and holding on to the railing for support, looking pale and weak, with long, red hair and wrapped in a deep jewel green velvet house robe with white trim and gold slippers.  
  
Ysanne moved to take care of the situation. She spoke as she ascended the stairs. "Daala, you shouldn't be up. Everything's all right now. Come on, back into bed with you."  
  
Rivoche looked at her aunt. She had heard fact, rumor, myth, and legend about the infamous Imperial officer. "That's Admiral Daala? What's wrong with her?"  
  
Typhani leaned a bit closer to her niece. "Yes. She's not well. She just had a double lung transplant."  
  
Rivoche glanced over her shoulder at her uncle, then turned back to her aunt, lowering her voice. "Aunt Typi, what is she doing here?"  
  
"It's not what everybody thinks, Rivoche. You were away at school, and so you didn't know. She was going to be a surrogate for us. Yavin interrupted those plans, unfortunately. And then, of course, everything got twisted way out of proportion."  
  
"Rivoche, I have a question for you," Aerom interceded. Rivoche looked up at him. "How do we know you're not going to cut our throats in the middle of the night?"  
  
"Aerom!" Typhani admonished him.  
  
"No, it's a good question," Adrian defended his chief military advisor.  
  
Rivoche looked down into her lap. "I--I don't have a good answer for that," she replied softly. Then she looked up at her uncle. "I was going to say that I can't blame you if you never trust me again, because I don't deserve it. But you've never trusted anybody anyway." Then she looked at Aerom. "And how do I know, for that matter, that you won't kill me in the night?"  
  
"That's enough talk about hurting one another. If there is to be any killing done, then let it be Rebels, Vong, and Jedi," Typhani declared. She rose from her chair. "It's getting late, and we've had a long day. I am going to take Rivoche up to her room now, check on Daala, and then retire for the evening."  
  
"My . . . room?" Rivoche queried.  
  
Her uncle addressed that. "We never gave up on you, Rivoche." But then he turned to Aerom after his wife and niece disappeared at the top of the stairs. "Post security in the upstairs hall tonight, just in case." Rivoche was right. He didn't trust anyone, and hadn't since he was a child. His mother's drinking and his father's empty promises cost him that innocence at a very early age.  
  
"I've heard and read so much about you," Rivoche said to Daala after Typhani introduced them.  
  
"All bad, I presume," Daala said with a half-smile.  
  
"Well," Rivoche smiled back, "General Bel Iblis can be crass at times, but General Solo actually had some good things to say about you."  
  
"That's because that piece of Rebel scum can't wipe his butt without help, permission, or both," Daala observed, and cracked a wider smile. Typhani and Rivoche both laughed at her.  
  
"Doesn't he have a Wookiee to do that for him?" Typhani asked.  
  
"Not anymore," Rivoche answered. She and her aunt then left Daala to rest and proceeded down the hall to her room.  
  
Rivoche stepped tentatively into the room that she had not seen since she was twenty-two years old, and that was twenty-two years ago. Yet everything was exactly as she had remembered leaving it. She walked slowly around the room as her aunt stood in the doorway, running her hand over her comforter, her own faux fur throw, her dresser, her vanity. On her vanity sat a fitted wooden box that contained several small drawers and compartments. Rivoche opened a small door and reached inside to remove a dragon figurine that her aunt had given her when she was a child. The dragon also had a small compartment, a little safe of sorts, inside it. Rivoche opened the dragon and reached inside the small interior compartment to find her prep school class ring, identical to her aunt's except for the year, exactly where she used to keep it. She put it on, then pushed up her sleeve to reveal the bracelet she was wearing, a dainty chain of blue and silver beads and shells that Typhani had made for her on her sixteenth birthday. She had been wearing it when the Rebels rescued her, and so it was the only keepsake she'd had of her former life. Typhani stepped over to her, and took her hand to look at the bracelet. Then they hugged each other tightly, and Rivoche thought back to the day they buried her father, another day when she had run for safety and comfort into her aunt's arms.  
  
Typhani held her niece out at arm's length, looking her over once more to make sure she was really there. "I just can't believe you're home!"  
  
"I almost didn't come back. I almost just went to a neutral sector. I didn't know if you wanted me, or would have me back."  
  
Typhani shuddered a bit. So much had come and gone. So much was different, yet still the same. She recalled her first visit to Daala as she formulated her next question to her niece. "Rivoche, can I tell you something that I've never told you before?"  
  
Rivoche seemed a bit taken aback. "Of course, Aunt Typi. What?"  
  
Typhani stared into her niece's eyes. "I wanted you from the day you were born."  
  
It was just the way she said it that made Rivoche understand. She stared back at her aunt for a long time.  
  
"You . . . you pushed my mother over the balcony, didn't you?"  
  
"No, Rivoche, I didn't push her. But I didn't stop her, either. She'd begged me to take care of you that afternoon, made me promise that I would, for some reason. The servants were there, of course, but she insisted, and naturally I was more than willing. She seemed ill . . . upset. I didn't know what was wrong with her, so when she didn't come for you, I went to check on her. I had you in my arms, and I didn't want to give you back. I know it sounds awful, but I stood by and watched as she threw herself over the balustrade and onto the rocks. And then you were half mine, you see."  
  
"Just like Aunt Morgana didn't stop Admiral Worrell!"  
  
"Yes, Rivoche."  
  
Another long silence. "You--both--wanted me that badly?"  
  
"Yes. We both did. But as it turned out, you didn't want us. I suppose we got what we deserved." Typhani looked away.  
  
"No!" Rivoche cried. "By the stars, no, Aunt Typi! You didn't deserve to be betrayed in the way I betrayed you, and Lyjéa certainly didn't deserve--" She broke away.  
  
Typhani put her arm around her niece again. "I know. There's been so much pain, so much grief . . . "  
  
Downstairs, Adrian had proceeded into his study to catch up on some work. He sat typing busily at one of his computer terminals when the comm beeped--the direct, private line that only the family used. Thinking himself the only one still up, he got it.  
  
Lyjéa was near tears, and that concerned her father deeply. "Don't question me on this, but I need to get a message to Rivoche! Urgently!"  
  
Startled, Adrian spun around in his chair. "I don't believe this! Lyjéa, Rivoche just came home! She's upstairs, sleeping in her own bed! We were going to wait until the morning to call you."  
  
"I'm on my way!"  
  
"What! Lyjéa, wait a minute! It's the middle of the night there! Lyjéa!" It was too late. She had deactivated her comm.  
  
"What in the Empire . . . " Adrian muttered to himself as he turned back to his computer. "Now I shall have to wait up for her. Serves me right, I suppose. I missed their teenage years."  
  
When Lyjéa arrived in the wee hours of the morning, she insisted that they wake her mother and Rivoche. "All right, Lyjéa," her father conceded as they got into the lift together. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me what's the matter."  
  
"Just wake them!" she insisted.  
  
Rivoche sat up with a start at word that Lyjéa actually wanted to see her. She grabbed her robe, stepped into the upstairs hall, and stood dumbfounded before her cousin.  
  
"You didn't do it, Rivoche! You didn't do it!" Lyjéa cried.  
  
"I didn't do what?" Rivoche asked.  
  
Lyjéa turned to her parents. "I just got the results back from Lumin. The cell regeneration treatment didn't restore my vision because it operates at the root of the genetic code. My genetic code is wrong, at least where my vision is concerned!" She thrust a piece of flemsiplast toward them that her father took from her hand. Then she turned back in Rivoche's direction. "I went blind because of a bad Eri-Phelari genetic recombinant! It wasn't anybody's fault! It was just a coincidence that you pushed me down the stairs!" she explained.  
  
Rivoche could hardly believe what she had just heard. Forty years of guilt and shame had just been lifted off of her, and the two women could at long last be cousins--if not friends. Adrian and Typhani beheld a sight they never thought they'd see as the two cousins--adopted sisters--embraced each other tightly.  
  
Rivoche was home.  
  
Daala's child was not with them, but, better than that, Daala was.  
  
They had just doubled the size of their family. Four girls! And three grandsons! At long last, they had the large family they had always wanted. For the rest of that wonderful night, all was well with the universe.  
  
Yet still not whole.  
  
Rivoche Tarkin had a mission in mind as she approached her uncle in his study a few evenings later. She needed to avert what she perceived to be a serious problem for the Imperial Remnant.  
  
"Can't you get off that scooter at all?" she asked her uncle directly. "Can you stand or walk, even for a short while?"  
  
He looked away. "No."  
  
"But I've seen you move. You're not paralyzed."  
  
"Oh, no, it's nothing like that. The weakness is from the length of my encapsulation. I have no muscle tone left, not after a quarter century of non-use."  
  
"But can't you rebuild your strength? Haven't you had physical therapy?" Rivoche was not going to let him off easy, and she had good reason.  
  
He took a moment to answer her, neither understanding nor liking her line of questioning. "It didn't work."  
  
"It didn't work, or you didn't give it a chance?"  
  
"Every day for eight weeks. Nothing--except a lot of discomfort."  
  
"You gave up? Grand Moff Never-Give-Up gave up!?"  
  
He just stared at her. "No, the hospital staff made that decision for me. They thought it was in my best interest not to continue."  
  
"Ha!" Rivoche exclaimed, throwing back her head. "Since when do you let others make decisions for you, especially where your own health is concerned? You've ordered these people's executions, right?"  
  
"Well . . . no. They were the experts on the matter, and they were only trying to help. I wasn't exactly in a position to . . . " He trailed away, growing a bit nervous. He had almost just admitted that he had been vulnerable.  
  
"You weren't in a position to what? You're the blasted Emperor, Uncle Adrian! Isn't that what you've always wanted?"  
  
"Yes, of course it is, but what does that have to do with . . . " He looked down at his useless lower body and the base of his hoverscooter.  
  
Rivoche did not relent. "Uncle Adrian, you've got to get off of this thing," she insisted, lightly kicking the bottom of his scooter.  
  
"I'm afraid that's wishful thinking, Rivoche."  
  
She took a couple of steps back from him, leaned back on one heel, and folded her arms across her chest. "You're afraid! For once in your life, you are afraid! You're afraid of trying and failing!"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, Rivoche!"  
  
"Do you think the New Republic or the Yuuzhan Vong will take pity on you and leave the Imperial Remnant alone just because of this? Is this a ploy to keep them at bay? Is that it? It won't work. They don't care. I know. I was there. I was approached left and right, called into meetings-- they've been looking for a weak spot since the day it was announced that you were alive! See, they have a score to settle, something about a place called Alderaan. I'm afraid the station wasn't enough for them." She leaned forward and took him by the shoulders. He winced, and shrank from her, but she didn't let him go. "Do you know what they'll say?" she continued. "They'll say that the Imperial Remnant is just as crippled and broken as its leader! They'll point the Vong in this direction--easy pickins, they'll say! The Vong hate weakness, you know. You, Uncle Adrian, are an insult to their gods! You're going to look awfully weak in front of the entire galaxy, and that scares you more than anything else in the universe, doesn't it?"  
  
"Of course not," he snapped, "and so I'd rather not discuss--"  
  
She shook him slightly at that. "No! You need this. Let yourself feel for once! You have used fear all of your life as a tool to intimidate and control others, and so just once you need to experience it for yourself! You need to find out first-hand what you have espoused all these years!"  
  
"Rivoche, I am not afraid of the New Republic, the Yuuzhan Vong, or of this," he insisted, now trying very hard to keep his defenses up.  
  
"You're trembling," Rivoche observed.  
  
He looked away.  
  
With that, Rivoche slid her arms under his and forcibly pulled him up off the scooter. "I didn't give up my life on Coruscant and come home and watch you capitulate like this. Hang on to me. Trust me!"  
  
"There's no such thing, Rivoche."  
  
"You have no choice but to trust me. I've got you. I'm not going to let you fall. See, you're all right."  
  
As he slowly calmed down, Adrian thought back to the fragile little four-year-old girl he had once held tightly in the night, and marveled at the strength and resolve in the woman she had become. She had grown up to be a Tarkin after all, he thought as he held fast to her and tried to gain some footing on his own. And this time, he noticed, for some reason it wasn't quiet so painful anymore.  
  
"Good! That's a start. You can do this! You might need some braces for awhile, but you can do this!" she encouraged him.  
  
Yes. Perhaps he could.  
  
Typhani walked in then, and nearly choked on her own breath when she saw them. "Adrian! Rivoche, you'll hurt him!"  
  
"I will not!" Rivoche insisted. "You're letting him off too easy, Aunt Typi! If he was paralyzed, that's one thing, but this is just-- carbonitis! He can do this. He has to! You won't like the New Republic's reaction if he doesn't! Now I want the physical therapy people back in here, every day, and I'm going to oversee his progress myself!" She helped her uncle back onto his scooter, but continued to rant at him.  
  
"Do you know what else I am going to do to you? When you are doing your exercises and you get frustrated because you can't do one, or when it hurts like hell, I am going to put a great big picture of my friend Luke Skywalker in front of you! He's the one who dropped those proton torpedoes on you, you know. So are you just going to lie there on the mat and let him defeat you after all, O Mighty Exalted Mister Emperor! Well, are you?"  
  
Adrian smiled up at his niece. "No. Certainly not!"  
  
"Look out, Coruscant! The Tarkins are teaming up!" Typhani mused.  
  
Back on Coruscant, the search continued for the whereabouts of Historical Bureau Associate Director Rivoche Tarkin. She'd been missing for a week now, and everyone feared the worst, that somehow agents of the former Empire, or of her own family, for that matter, had finally captured her--or worse.  
  
Admiral Ackbar sat down at his computer terminal to check the latest feed on the search for Rivoche, and to check his own holonet messages. He was most shocked to see a message from an Imperial Remnant domain. When Ackbar opened the message, it read simply, "I'm home. I won't be back. I just wanted to let everyone know that I'm all right. Rivoche." Such would not be the case for the friends and colleagues she had left behind on Coruscant.  
  
Three days later, Rivoche made good on a threat as she and a physical therapy droid hovered over her uncle and glared down at him as he once again lay flat of his back on an exercise mat with weights strapped around his ankles. The main task that day was to raise each leg into the air and hold it there to the count of ten. "I said again!" Rivoche insisted. "Do you remember when you were teaching me to ride my first speeder bike, and I kept falling off? 'Never give up, Rivoche! Never give up!' Remember that? Good words, Uncle Adrian! Now . . . eat 'em!"  
  
It hurt like hell. He could only make it to a count of six or seven.  
  
"Rebel scum! Jedi vermin!" Rivoche chanted, holding up the promised picture of the Jedi Master. "Don't you remember how hard you and Uncle Bevel worked on that battle station, brand new it was, just for this little snot-nosed Jedi farm boy from Tatooine to blow it to oblivion and knock you on your Imperial butt for twenty-five years! Dammit, Uncle Adrian! He killed five of your closest friends! Put that anger of yours to good use this time! Again!"  
  
Rivoche made him fight, and his strength began to return. Typhani stayed upstairs. She couldn't bear it. Not until a few weeks later when Rivoche unexpectedly let go of him, much as the droids had done bacon on Lumin. This time, though, he did not fall. Instead, he remembered to take a moment to orient himself, then at last took the few steps necessary to reach his wife. Rivoche broke into tears of joy. Typhani just held him, elated. He would only be able to take a few steps at a time for now, or stand for just a few moments, but it would be enough for appearances--for his coronation--and he would continue to improve.  
  
"All right, where is this Skywalker? I'm ready for him!" Adrian declared.  
  
"One problem, Uncle Adrian. There's a great big peace treaty with Gilad's handwriting all over it between you and him," Rivoche reminded him.  
  
"Now when did I ever let a mere document stop me?"  
  
"All right, back on your scooter!" Rivoche teased. By that point, she knew that the plan was to simply let as much civilization fall off of the New Republic as would come of its own accord, then wait for the rest to fall apart or be overrun. Then they would deal with the Vong. Based on her experience, though, Rivoche knew that wasn't going to happen. Still, if she was going to be home, if she was going to honor her heritage, she wanted strength, though no more violence. The Vong would provide enough of that, she knew. The Imperial Remnant and the New Republic need not inflict any more on each other. Daala and her uncle were living proof of that, and several orders of magnitude more proof lay dead throughout the galaxy.  
  
Adrian did get back on his scooter, and back to work. He indicated for Typhani to follow him into his study. "I'd like to show you something," he said. "I need your opinion." She put her arms around her husband and leaned over his shoulder to look at the image of a partially destroyed/dismantled Imperial class star destroyer on his computer screen. "It's the Gorgon," he explained. "It's salvageable, though quite involved. This will make a fine ceremonial ship for us all, don't you think? We definitely need one, and I want something from the height of the New Order. After all, we certainly can't take the Chimaera from Gilad."  
  
"Daala will be absolutely thrilled!"  
  
"I know, so don't tell her. This shall be a surprise."  
  
"Are you going to leave it at Kuat?"  
  
"No. The Vong will no doubt take Kuat soon. Naturally, I shall enlist Sienar Fleet Systems for this retrofit."  
  
"Ah! Quite a project for Kormath, no?" She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. "Adrian, you really need to go see Raith."  
  
Raith. Adrian shuddered at the thought. He had been avoiding the subject, not out of any animosity toward his lifelong friend, but rather out of hesitation, not wanting to face him, to face what he might become. Everyone in the galaxy has a twin somewhere, so the saying went, and Raith and Adrian could have easily passed for brothers they resembled each other so. At eighty-three, Raith was a mere relic of his former self, not to mention what the stroke had done to him.  
  
"As I told you back on Lumin," Typhani continued, "he might remember you. Your companionship might be very good for him." Then she lay a guilt trip upon him. "He would have been there for you had he been able. He thinks you're dead, Adrian."  
  
He drew a deep breath. "I know. Let's . . . make the arrangements," he said as he brought up his travel scheduler.  
  
A week later, he and Typhani made the trip to Timarthis. For the first time, Adrian left his scooter behind in their hotel suite, having graduated to a walker. That, too, he left indoors, leaning on Typhani for support instead, as they stepped out onto a balcony at the exclusive retirement compound and took their seats, with Adrian closest to Raith. Typhani gripped her husband's wrist reassuringly as he looked upon his best friend, now a frail, emaciated wisp of the man he used to be.  
  
"Hello, Raith," he finally said, studying his friend a bit more carefully for some glimpse of the past. He thought back to the first time they ever met each other on Coruscant; Raith was ten, and Adrian nine.  
  
"Raith, don't you remember me? It's Typhani," she prompted him. But Raith stared only in front of him, at Adrian.  
  
"It's been a long time, no?" Adrian continued.  
  
Raith continued to stare, and to fidget slightly, as if something began to flicker within him. Eventually, he raised a shaky hand and pointed at Adrian. "Dead?"  
  
"No, just carbonite," Adrian assured him. "You're not dead either, my friend, not quite yet."  
  
"Not . . . dead? No . . . Empire?"  
  
"No, Raith, I'm not dead. You're not looking at a ghost, and the Empire isn't dead either. I am the Emperor now."  
  
"The Emperor . . . he's dead!" Raith insisted.  
  
"No, Raith. Palpatine is dead. I am the Emperor now."  
  
Raith pointed at him again. "Emperor!"  
  
"Yes. There, you see, you do understand."  
  
"Thrawn?"  
  
"No, Thrawn is dead."  
  
"Emperor!" Raith insisted again with his slow and labored speech.  
  
"That's right." Adrian could detect something in his eyes, part of a look he remembered seeing when Raith had gotten his hands on a very big and exciting new project.  
  
"Thrawn died."  
  
"Yes, he did, unfortunately. Did you know him?"  
  
"Thrawn. For the Empire. He died. Now, the Emperor, you!"  
  
"Yes, Raith, now you have it straight."  
  
Raith reached toward Adrian then, and stared at him intensely. "846 . . .287 . . . 94 . . 942 . . . 0 . . . 063! Yes! 8 . . . 84 . . . 6 . . . 28 . . . 79 . . . 4206 . . . 3287 . . . " Raith continued to babble what to Adrian and Typhani seemed to be a random series of numbers.  
  
"What, Raith? What are you trying to tell us? The numbers aren't making any sense," Typhani encouraged him.  
  
"84 . . . 6 . . . " he repeated, and reached for Adrian. Then he pointed into his lap. "8 . . . 462 . .. "  
  
"Those numbers aren't random, Typhani. He's repeating the same sequence. Quickly, my datapad!" Adrian insisted. Typhani pulled the datapad from her bag and took down the sequence that Adrian had quickly memorized and relayed to her, "846287942063."  
  
"What does it mean?" she asked.  
  
"I don't know. Part of some forgotten code we once knew, perhaps." But then Adrian felt a tug on his tunic sleeve, and turned back to Raith, who again began to reiterate the sequence.  
  
"It's all right, Raith. I've got it, see?" he assured him, holding up the datapad.  
  
"For the Empire, Emperor!"  
  
"Yes, Raith, now can you tell me what this means? Come now, try to remember." Raith only stared at him. Then his head dropped, and he lost all coherence.  
  
"Why?" Adrian asked his wife. "Of all people for this to happen to, why Raith?"  
  
"I know," she said, "but that's the most lucid I've seen him in years. You'll have to keep coming. I think you could reach him, if you haven't already." She took the datapad from him and tucked it back into her bag.  
  
"No. Now that I'm here to make the decisions, we will bring him perhaps to Eriadu. It's more familiar to him. And there we'll see that he's cared for, closer to us." They sat with Raith a while longer, until the nurse-droids came to take him in for his afternoon nap.  
  
"That was . . . difficult," Adrian commented as he sank onto the settee back in their hotel suite.  
  
"I know, but I don't think you realize how much he needed that, or how much seeing you back means to him. As I told you, that's the most conversation he's carried on since he had the stroke."  
  
"Albeit it numeric," Adrian observed. "Let me have my datapad, will you, dear?" He sat contemplating the numbers for a very long time, searching his memory for what they might mean--ship model numbers, or a serial number, perhaps? Or security access codes? Account numbers? Part of a numeric code? Adrian slowly gave himself a headache. "Drats! I shall just have to run a wide-scale computer search on this when we get home," he conceded.  
  
When they returned to Phelarion with the strange numeric sequence, Daala figured it out. "I think these are coordinates, Adrian," she said, filling in some of the missing details, the spaces and dashes, and a couple of conjectured alphanumeric characters.  
  
"Yes, I think you're right," he said, taking the datapad from her. He looked up the information quickly on the computer, then checked the datapad again. Although he had to agree with Daala's extrapolation of the numbers Raith kept repeating, he was now uncertain that they held any significance. "This location would be well into the Unknown Regions," he told her. He knew his friend too well, though. Even through the stroke damage, Raith was insistent. They would have to follow up.  
  
"Adrian, you can't do this," Typhani warned him. "It's too soon. You're not well enough yet, and Daala certainly can't go!"  
  
"No, you're right, we can't do it," he agreed. "But Aerom and Kormath can."  
  
Kormath was delighted at being given such a mission. Adrian had speculated that his knowledge of Raith's business and engineering practices would be needed depending upon what they found at the specified coordinates. Lyscithea, however, was ambivalent about the idea, but her mother quickly counseled her how to cope with such feelings.  
  
Gilad arranged for them to take an Imperial class ship with an enhanced complement of TIE fighters and an experienced crew. When they arrived at the spot that Raith's coordinates indicated, they initially found nothing. A thorough scan of the area, however, revealed something utterly remarkable. A huge object lay cloaked directly in front of them--an object about the size of a small moon . . .  
  
Kormath worked with the codes that Raith often used when tinkering with cloaking devices. It took him several hours, but he finally managed to uncloak the object. Kormath and Aerom stood frozen before the forward viewport as the static from the cloaking device dissipated. Their eyes grew wide with joyous disbelief. Before them loomed a full-size, fully complete, and fully operational Death Star, its design slightly different from its two doomed and lost predecessors and their prototype, but a Death Star battle station nonetheless, complete with superlaser!  
  
After the failure of the first two designs, the perceived loss of his best friend, the hostile takeover of his family's company by the Liannans, and the decline of his nation, Raith Sienar had approached the current leadership and attempted his own redesign, following his original plans and using druids to construct the station in secret in the Unknown Regions. Thrawn died before he could take delivery of his cloaked station, and there was no one else Raith trusted with it--until now. The payment for the project, however, which Thrawn had fortunately transferred prior to his unfortunate end, had been enough for Raith to recover control of Sienar Design Systems and its subsidiaries once and for all.  
  
But would his creation be enough to protect the Imperial Remnant once and for all? Adrian basked in unbounded excitement as he and Daala studied Aerom's holographic transmissions of the station. "We'll have to activate it and staff it quickly. How many people did you say comprise your group?" he asked Daala.  
  
"About 2,500 adults," she confirmed.  
  
"Well, that's quite a staff, Daala, for a start. Now, how would you like to be in command of that?" he asked, indicating the hologram. Daala beamed, but their excitement abruptly disintegrated when Rivoche burst into her uncle's study, Madame Director Isard on her heels.  
  
"Uncle Adrian! It's Coruscant! It's--it's--gone!"  
  
Adrian gasped nearly to the point of choking and spun around to face them.  
  
"It was the Vong. Just like Ithor. It's utterly incinerated! I'm quite afraid there's nothing left. And, Fey'lya's dead." Ysanne explained. "The New Republic is obviously dead as well, but we've no time for celebrations."  
  
"Where are the Vong headed now?" Adrian asked urgently.  
  
"The Meridian Sector. Probably the Cybloc system, and then--" Ysanne looked sharply at Daala. "Then most likely the Chorios system."  
  
This time it was Daala who gasped. "My colony . . . " 


	15. Leaving Pedducis Chorios

Chapter 15:  
  
Leaving Pedducis Chorios  
  
"Yes, absolutely, this time we will evacuate," the Emperor assured Aerom Flennic and several other officers as they prepared for the trip to Pedducis Chorios. Fortunately, the Vong temporarily turned their attention to the Hapes Cluster, gunning for Jedi hiding there, so that bought the Imperial Remnant enough time to make the exodus a diplomatic one. With the Vong distracted, Adrian and Typhani decided to travel to the Chorios system with Daala to seek the colony's support in staffing the new Sienar Death Star--or the "Vong Crusher," as it had been nicknamed.  
  
The peace accord between the New Republic and the Imperial Remnant contained a provision that any Palpatine-era superweapons discovered would be jointly dismantled. However, with the current crisis, the New Republic found itself in far too much disarray to challenge the point. The best they could hope for was that the newfound station would be used for the mutual defense, but no such discussions had yet transpired. Adrian was, in fact, still formulating how he would respond to such a request should it come, which Imperial assets he would demand be returned for said protection.  
  
He and Typhani knew that Daala would find leaving Pedducis Chorios behind quite difficult. Fortunately, Kormath and his team at Sienar finished a special project in time for the trip, a project that would undoubtedly make Daala's transition easier. Adrian turned to her.  
  
"We'll be traveling to Pedducis Chorios in our new ceremonial flagship," he announced.  
  
She drew her brows together in confusion. "New flagship? What new flagship?"  
  
"You were still convalescing, so I arranged for the new ceremonial vessel. After all, we can't be seen traversing the galaxy in the likes of Han Solo's hooptie, now can we?" Everyone laughed at that jab at Solo's infamous Millennium Falcon, but Daala was still confused. Adrian and Typhani wanted her that way, and they made her sit in the rear of the shuttle as they disembarked so that she could not see clearly outside.  
  
"Close your eyes," Adrian said as they docked with the new flagship.  
  
"What?" Daala queried.  
  
"That's a command, Admiral. Close your eyes and let us lead you." Daala did as she was commanded, entrusting one hand to Adrian and the other to Typhani as they exited the shuttle. Daala found maneuvering a bit awkward, as Adrian was on his hoverscooter, still not able to walk for long distances.  
  
As they entered the lift to the bridge, Daala felt something strangely familiar. Things sounded vaguely familiar, smelled familiar, but not quite somehow.  
  
"All right, Admiral, you may look now," Adrian said as they reached the bridge. Flennic and the other officers had already hurried ahead and assembled.  
  
"Do you have any idea where you are?" the Empress asked, smiling kindly at her.  
  
Daala looked around. Yes, of course she recognized that she stood on the bridge of an Imperial Class Star Destroyer. Then she began to realize, and she ran to the command terminal to check the ship's identification codes and to look out the forward viewport at the undeniable exterior markings--shining emblems on a fully restored and once-again gleaming white exterior. "By the stars, I can't believe this!" she cried, then suddenly forced herself to regain her military stance as she turned around to face the other officers.  
  
"Yes. It's yours again, Admiral Daala," Adrian assured her warmly as the other officers, including Flennic, saluted her emphatically. Adrian had one more item of business to tend to before he and Typhani retired to their quarters for the duration of the flight. "All right, everyone, there are going to be a few changes. Daala, Aerom, a moment with you," he began. "Remove your insignias, please," Adrian directed them. Typhani took two small slipcases from her bag.  
  
Daala hesitated for a moment, but then did as commanded. The insignia she wore had been hers since she arrived at the Maw, and it was also one of the very few possessions she'd managed to keep with her throughout her years of turmoil. She and Flennic then handed their insignias to Typhani, who had passed the new slipcases to her husband.  
  
"It gives me great pleasure to promote each of you to the rank of Grand Admiral," Adrian told them triumphantly, handing each officer one of the new slipcases. Aerom knew it was coming, but Daala again momentarily flushed with excitement as she attached her new insignia to her uniform. Typhani then gave her back her old insignia, knowing what it meant to her, and Daala tucked it into the slipcase for safe keeping. "You will each find your new white uniforms in your quarters," the Emperor concluded.  
  
The members of the bridge crew applauded, and then took their places. "Your orders, Grand Admiral Daala?" the navigator queried with a smile.  
  
To give commands as an Imperial Admiral--as the Grand Admiral she thought she'd never become, and certainly the only female Grand Admiral--on the bridge of her beloved Gorgon again! The experience was so good it almost didn't seem real, but it was! It really was! Daala drew herself up as the memories came back and addressed her navigator, "Set course for Pedducis Chorios!"  
  
"At once, Admiral!" the navigator responded.  
  
"And all of you on highest alert! We have the Emperor and Empress on board! To your posts!" How supremely wonderful it felt to say "to your posts" instead of "to the lifepods!" And then she felt the surge of the new sublight engines through the bridge deck.  
  
And yet all was not triumph for Daala that day. Adrian had decided that Daala would command his flagship and serve as Chief of Staff to him and the Empress. Aboard the new station, Daala would assume the role of tactical chief once held by Charlie Bast, but, unlike Charlie, would not be a member of the security detail. He and Typhani had made these decisions for the sake of Daala's health. Flennic, however, inherited the retiring Gilad Pellaeon's position of Supreme Commander of the Imperial Military, the title held by Darth Vader prior to Pellaeon.  
  
So all in all, the day turned out to be bittersweet for Daala. On one level, she understood that, by his decisions, Adrian was protecting both her and the Imperial Remnant, but on another, she felt disappointed. It would have been easier if her colleague on the bridge that day had been a woman, she thought. If only Morgana . . .  
  
After a moderate flight, the Gorgon exited hyperspace just outside of the Chorios system and then settled into orbit around Pedducis Chorios. Typhani had rejoined Daala on the bridge. She stepped up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder, looking out the forward viewport at the dusty and forlorn world, not much better than Tatooine. "You could have come to Phelarion, you know. I wish you had."'  
  
"Yes, I wish I had also. You know what they say about hindsight . . . "  
  
A voice came over the bridge intercom, "Preparing shuttle for departure to the surface to disembark in 20 minutes."  
  
"Ah, I'd better wake that husband of mine," Typhani mused. "He gets far too little sleep lately."  
  
Daala radioed down to the surface to make sure the colony had assembled in the auditorium, that all security measures were in place, and that the projection equipment was working properly. On the way down, Daala gazed almost lovingly out the side viewports at her restored Gorgon, her hand over her new insignia, still hardly believing the reality of both.  
  
As the three of them exited the shuttle, the Tarkins' six elite security troopers closed a tight and protective formation around them. Adrian looked up at Daala. "I almost subjugated the Silver Unifer and this place once."  
  
"Aren't you glad you didn't waste your time or resources?" Daala queried disdainfully.  
  
"Yes, since it allowed you refuge."  
  
Daala smiled softly. Despite the rough nature of the world, it had indeed provided her a soft landing more than once.  
  
The group quickly made its way to the auditorium, where the Company of Independent Settlers had once again assembled to receive what they were told would be "great news," this time given by the new Emperor himself.  
  
All colonists rose to their feet when the group entered, and the thunderous applause seemed as if it would go on forever. This, many of the colonists reflected, is why they had sacrificed so much and held on for so long. Security troops lined the perimeter of the auditorium as the Emperor hovered behind the podium, carefully dismounted his scooter, and pulled himself up, Daala at his side. Adrian had always been a gifted speaker, having used his rhetorical abilities to sway many in the Senate to Palpatine's favor in the waning years of the Old Republic. The group presently before him would not be disappointed. The room fell silent at the slight raising of his right hand.  
  
"Loyal Imperial subjects," he began, "it is my utmost honor to announce to you that the New Order has at last been restored, and in its restoration, we shall drive away both the remains of the rebellious New Republic as well as the alien invaders they have attracted to this galaxy." More booming applause rocked the auditorium. "All you have fought for here, all of the years of strife you have endured to uphold the values of the Empire, shall not be in vain, but rather shall be rewarded with victory at last. As you know, we have come here to transfer all of you to a safer location in the event the Yuuzhan Vong turn their attention in this direction. I have chosen to come here today to personally disclose to you the nature of that location, as its creator is unable to do so himself. We have recently made an incredible discovery in the Unknown Regions. It was created some years ago by my dear friend and colleague Raith Sienar for Grand Admiral Thrawn, who, unfortunately, was unable to take delivery. This."  
  
The holoprojector hummed to life, revealing the image of the Sienar Death Star. Naturally, many in the audience were immediately skeptical, mindful of two very powerful explosions that occurred several years ago. Yet Adrian went on the allay those fears by explaining the differences in the designs, and vowing the be the first aboard.  
  
"And one other feature of interest," the Emperor continued, "this station is equipped with a cloaking device." The room fell silent again.  
  
Then, a few whispers rose from the floor. "Sienar did it! He really did it!"  
  
Adrian then continued and concluded by outlining the plans to shuttle the colonists to the restored Gorgon and then transfer them to the station. As the audience began to dissipate, some of the colonists who knew Adrian, Typhani, or both came up to greet them. Adrian went to Daala's conference room to meet with some of the former and future officers as Typhani accompanied Daala though the breezeway into the house.  
  
Dirty. Musty. Bare. Typhani wrinkled her nose and drew her dark brows together. This mess way beyond not saying anything. An Imperial officer, nonetheless, with such a mess! "Daala, don't you have anyone here to help you?" she asked. Daala looked away, embarrassed.  
  
Typhani realized then, as Daala shook her head slightly. "There's nothing left," she admitted quietly. "It took almost everything we had to purchase the land and build the colony. This compound took what I had left. My military pension kept me going from month to month, but that's all."  
  
Typhani had suspected as much. "It doesn't matter now," she reassured her.  
  
Daala didn't respond to that, but instead walked over to the expansive living room windows, and stared blankly out them. Typhani took a couple of steps toward her. "What is it?"  
  
"It's just that this is the only home I've ever had that was really mine. After nearly twenty years of living on ships, I was finally able to put my head down in my own bed, in my own home."  
  
"Perhaps the Vong won't come here after all, Daala. Maybe their attention will be drawn somewhere else. And then you can keep this as a vacation home or even return here if you like. You've given enough of your life and yourself to the Empire. You need not feel obligated that you have to stay, not now that Adrian has nearly recovered. You just need to let us know what you want to do."  
  
Daala turned around. "I don't ever want to be away from you and Adrian again. But I'd still like to be able to come here from time to time. I hope you're right."  
  
"Well, for now, let's get the droids in here and get your things packed."  
  
Adrian soon joined them, as he and Typhani had planned to return to the greater security of the Gorgon for the night. In light of the mess and the chaos of the packing, Daala decided to join them. They discussed the evacuation and its timing as they made their way back to the landing pad.  
  
Typhani looked over at her husband as they approached the shuttle's boarding ramp. "At least the Jedi are good for something after all, if nothing more than distracting the--"  
  
A blaster bolt that came out of nowhere cut Typhani's thought mid- sentence as a searing pain tore through her left leg just above the knee. Another bolt fired simultaneously grazed her husband across his left side. Their security detail closed in around them, but the firestorm only intensified as at least half a dozen snipers appeared on the rooftops along the left side of the landing pad and began to cut the guards down one by one.  
  
In the instant it began, Typhani spun on her right leg. lost her balance, and fell toward Adrian, just as a bolt that would surely have struck him in the head seared into the back of her right shoulder instead. The scooter went over as another bolt caught the side of her chest in a glancing blow under her left arm. That final blow threw her away from Adrian and onto the walkway, rolling her several times. She finally came to rest face down.  
  
"What--" Daala shrieked. Her military instincts immediately took over as the remaining three of their six guards moved in front of where Adrian had fallen while rapidly returning fire. Two snipers fell dead as a third staggered about from his injuries.  
  
Daala retrieved a blaster rifle from one of their own fallen guards and also began to return fire, finishing off the wounded sniper, just as another of their own guards fell. She took aim again at one of the three remaining gunmen, hitting him once, but he didn't go down. Following Daala's lead, Adrian pulled himself from beneath his overturned hoverscooter and crawled to another fallen guard, taking his rifle. In the confusion, he hadn't seen Typhani go down. He thought instead that she had been pulled to safety.  
  
"If I can just hold them off!" Daala thought as she heard the sounds of some of her colony's defenses coming to their aid. She raised her rifle again, and eliminated one more sniper just as the last of their own security detail fell to the ground beside her. That left two against her, one wounded. She stole a quick glance over her shoulder at Typhani, and seething hot rage coursed through every fiber of her being. It had been a mistake. She doubled over in crippling pain as a blaster bolt caught her in the lower left quadrant of her abdomen. Despite the pain, she knew that if she went down, it would leave Adrian exposed, but then a blast came up from behind her and struck the wounded sniper, knocking him off the roof.  
  
The searing energy tore through Daala like a supernova. She knew she couldn't straighten up or raise the rifle again. Her newly-transplanted lungs throbbed and burned in her chest as she dropped her rifle, instinctively clutched the wound, and fell forward.  
  
Unbeknownst to her, Daala's fall actually gave Adrian a clear shot at the last remaining sniper, but not before he got off another blast. Adrian tried to roll to one side to throw off the would-be assassin's aim, but he wasn't fast enough. The bolt struck him on the side of the right thigh, but he too would have taken a gut-shot had he lain still. He came out of the spin lying on his back. The sniper lowered his rifle, and for a brief moment, the two adversaries stared menacingly at each other. Then, the surviving sniper raised his rifle again, but turned his head slightly and aimed in a different direction. Adrian sought to take advantage of whatever distraction engaged the sniper. As he turned onto his left side and pulled the rifle into position, he then saw what the sniper was aiming at--a bloody bundle of ivory and lavender robes with a mass of dark hair that lay crumpled on the walkway a couple of meters away.  
  
Daala had managed to turn onto her back, and raised up enough to see the target as well. "No! Leave her alone!" she shrieked. Startled, the sniper's head jerked in her direction, but he did not realign his blaster. At that instant, in both utter shock and white rage, Adrian released a volley of laser bolts at the last assassin, nearly cutting him in half.  
  
Then the pain engulfed him as well as he fell back to the surface of the landing pad. Despite his own injuries and Daala's painful cries as she lay to his right, he knew he had to get to Typhani. With his heart pounding in his throat and his ears, he finally managed to drag himself to her. Her body was still twitching from the electrical pulse of the blaster bolts. A whirlwind of anguish engulfed him as he gently turned her face out of the dirt. She was blue. Adrian blacked out as the rest of the colony's security detail stampeded in their direction, and a cluster of guards and medics surrounded them.  
  
Stroma Veers called out to Daala as she ran up the walkway toward the landing pad. She reached her best friend just ahead of the medics and crouched down at her side. "Hang on, Daala," she encouraged her. "It doesn't look that bad."  
  
The other medic crew carefully turned Typhani onto her back, despite the wound to her right shoulder, and ripped open the front of her robes. Her heart was not beating, but merely quivering, its rhythm interrupted by the electrical impulses of the three direct hits she'd taken. Everyone pulled back as a small droid hovered over her and touched a probe to her exposed chest. Nothing. The droid moved into position again . . .  
  
The troops from the colony worked quickly to secure Daala and Adrian and get them aboard the shuttle, then returned to assist the medic crews with Typhani and the fallen guards. With their security breached, the shuttle lifted off as soon as the pad was cleared so as to get its surviving passengers to the safety of the waiting Star Destroyer as quickly as possible. The Gorgon made for the hyperspace jump point after everyone had been transferred aboard, headed for the trauma center in Eriadu City. One of the Tarkins' security guards had also survived, but his wounds were too severe to risk the longer flight to Lumin.  
  
Silence permeated the bridge. The crew, everyone, was in shock after what had just happened. Aerom Flennic juggled two comm ports simultaneously as he already feverishly went about notifying Bastion and finding those responsible.  
  
After all she'd just been through, Daala was lucky this time. The blow that struck her came from a lower-powered hand blaster, and had caught her at a glancing angle. Stroma sat next to her.  
  
"Don't tell me it's just a flesh wound! It hurt too damned bad!" Daala insisted.  
  
"The impulse nicked an ovary, dear," Stroma told her.  
  
Daala just cringed at that, but then turned her head away, not even trying to hold back this time. Stroma knew that the tears were not the result of her own wound or pain. She took her hand. "I know, Daala. I know. I just . . . can't believe this has happened."  
  
The medic crew thought it best to keep Adrian sedated until they reached Eriadu. When they arrived at the medcenter, Stroma walked briskly alongside Daala as the medic droids wheeled her in. Daala closed her eyes tightly and Stroma's stomach knotted as they passed a wailing Lyjéa ensconced in Valdemar's arms.  
  
Typhani's condition was especially critical as another cluster of droids wheeled her into one of the trauma bays. Her left leg had been nearly severed in two by the first shot that hit her, and the other two blasts had burned deep into her chest cavity. Inflammation had already started to set in, choking off her lungs and constricting her heart, which continued to beat erratically. Then it stopped altogether once again. This time, a surgical droid hovered quickly into position above her and opened her chest.  
  
Typhani stirred to find herself standing in a thick, white fog that seemed to be illuminated from within. She thought she had been injured, but then somehow that didn't seem real, nor did it seem to matter anymore. But the fog . . . something was not right about that. "Fog on Pedducis Chorios?" she wondered aloud as she looked around her for the others. "Adrian? Daala?" she called out. They weren't there.  
  
"Mom!" came a small voice from behind her. She whirled around to see six young faces staring up at her, four boys and two girls.  
  
"What?" she asked, baffled.  
  
One of the dark-haired boys spoke up. "You can't come this way. Not yet."  
  
"You children must be mistaken. Are you from the colony?"  
  
"No," one of the girls said, a confused look on her face. "We're from . . . you. You're our mother."  
  
Typhani took a step toward them. "You are mischievous little ones. My daughters are old enough to be your mother. Come now, who put you up to this?" she asked, smiling down at them.  
  
"You did. You're not supposed to be here," another boy explained.  
  
"We are your daughters," the two girls insisted in unison.  
  
Typhani mused that she would get good whomever orchestrated this charade, but she started to feel a bit uneasy as well. "Really? What are your names, then?"  
  
"I'm Lyjéa," one girl insisted.  
  
"And I'm Lyscithea," the other followed.  
  
"Ah! Well, at least you have the names correct, but there's just one little problem--my Lyjéa and Lyscithea are nearly forty years old, and Scythi has children of her own who are your age! Why, you youngsters can't be more than five or six years old!"  
  
"We're not even that old," one of the boys insisted.  
  
"How old are you, then?" Typhani inquired, beginning to have some inquisitive fun with the children.  
  
Another boy spoke up. "We're not any age at all. We . . . weren't even born."  
  
Typhani shuddered as she realized that she must be dreaming, but this felt like no dream. Still, something else was not right. She'd had five miscarriages, yet six children stood before her, blocking her path.  
  
"See, I would have been Lyjéa if I had been born, and then she would be called something else," the first little girl explained.  
  
"Same for me," the little Lyscithea added.  
  
Typhani stepped backwards this time, and took a moment to continue. The children never took their eyes off of her. Finally, she addressed the remaining four children. "Boys, what are your names?"  
  
Three of the boys looked at each other, and one of them answered for the group. "Us three, we're all called Wilhuff Adrian."  
  
"Except me!" the fourth boy spoke up.  
  
Typhani swallowed back the lump in her throat and drew a shaky breath. She noticed that this boy more closely resembled one of the other three--in fact, the two were identical. "And, what's your name?"  
  
"I'm Nostremi--or, I would have been."  
  
At that, Typhani fell to her knees and opened her arms to her lost children. "Come to me!" she cried.  
  
"Only for a little while," Nostremi told her. "Then you have to go back." The other followed his lead into their mother's embrace, and she gathered them close as if to never let go.  
  
"No! I want to stay with you! I want to know all of you!" she cried as the children came into her arms. But they didn't feel quite real, neither warm nor cold, they had no smell, and didn't quite move as children do. Still, she clutched them all to her, taking each of their small faces in her hands one by one.  
  
"You will, someday, but it's too soon now," Nostremi explained.  
  
She surveyed all of them again, running her hands through their hair. "I want your father to know you!" she cried.  
  
"He will, too. We watched over him, while he was . . . asleep. Someday, all of us will be together, but you have to go back now."  
  
She shook her head at them as tears began to streak her cheeks.  
  
"But you have to! You have to go back to Father! He needs you! The Empire--he can't do it without you!" the girls insisted.  
  
She knew she could never willingly leave Adrian behind, not after what had happened to him. But to find her lost children, only to have to leave them again so quickly--could she bear it? "You don't know how much I've grieved for you--each one of you!" She turned to Nostremi and took his head in her hands again. "And I never even knew about you!"  
  
"But now you don't have to grieve for us anymore. Now you know we're here. We've always been here, and we'll be here waiting for you--for you and Father and our sisters. But now you must go back!" Nostremi pleaded.  
  
The girls approached her then, and each of them took one of her hands. "Come," little Lyjéa said. "We'll walk with you as far as we can." Typhani only pulled the little girls close again.  
  
Nostremi turned and called into the fog. "Grampa! Please come! She'll listen to you!"  
  
Typhani lifted her head and rose to her feet as her father--or at least an image of him--came out of the fog toward her. "Papa!" she cried, and ran into his arms. "I never got to say goodbye to you!"  
  
"Is no need, Typhani. Goodbye is final, but see, we're all here waiting for you. A fine woman you have become, an' a fine Empress you will make! You must go back to your Emperor now. You know how bad it was, when he was in da carbonite. You want him to suffer da same an' worse? Dis is no dream, Typhani, no carbonite. If you stay here, it means dat you die on da odder side. It's not time for you here yet. You go. I watch dese liddle ones for you."  
  
Typhani stepped back to look at her father, and then down at her unborn children.  
  
"Now you can tell Father about us," little Nostremi told his mother as he moved back to take his grandfather's hand. Typhani felt something pulling at her robes as her father and her children disappeared into the fog . . .  
  
The next sensation she felt was like being slammed against a bulkhead during an aborted hyperspace jump. She was back in her body, and it convulsed at her arrival, much to the relief of the trauma center staff. To lose the Empress would be unthinkable, and unforgivable. A very much relieved young intern went to relay the news.  
  
Stroma left the waiting room where she and other friends and family members had gathered and slipped quietly into the room where Daala was resting. She moved the back of her hand away from her eyes and looked up urgently at her best friend. The look on Stroma's face betrayed the news. "Daala, you need to be ready for this," she began somberly. "You may have to help with Adrian later. It's Typhani--they, well, they're putting her into a bacta tank now, but . . . " She looked away.  
  
Daala winced, but she lay silently. Stroma thought she knew what was on her best friend's mind. "I suppose this could actually work out well for you in the long run, couldn't it?" she observed.  
  
"What?" Daala asked, raising her head a bit.  
  
Stroma sat down next to her. "Oh, come on, Daala! I see the way you still steal a lascivious glance at him every once in awhile. When you thought you were about to leave this universe, it was easy for you to play the martyr and not make waves. But now that you're not about to die anytime soon, it's not so easy anymore, is it?"  
  
"Stroma, don't! Just don't!" Daala insisted.  
  
"See? I knew it."  
  
Daala turned to face her. "Stroma, Typhani has been like a mother to me--the mother I never had!"  
  
"Yes, true, but if she's not going to make it and there's nothing they can do about it, well then?"  
  
Now Daala came full up off the bed and spoke through a tight throat. "Did they say that?!"  
  
"No, no, they said they don't know."  
  
Daala lay back, staring at the ceiling. She loved Typhani, perhaps now as much as she loved and admired Adrian, though she still could not bring herself to say so. She knew that she could never do anything to break their bond. Still, Stroma had a point. If the unfortunate did become inevitable . . . She'd once thought of that before, she recalled. In that event, she knew, Adrian would likely need far more help than she or anyone else could give him. Still, she did not one bit appreciate Stroma's insinuations at a time like this. Yet Stroma knew the script well, Daala remembered, having once been an "other woman" herself who followed on quickly and aggressively after the death of a first wife. "How could you even bring this up now?" Daala accused. "Don't judge me by your own actions, Stroma."  
  
This time it was Stroma who looked away.  
  
"What has Typhani ever done to you?!" Daala continued.  
  
"It's not her fault. It's just hard to watch. Why her and why not me?"  
  
Daala blinked, then realized. "It's about Max, isn't it?"  
  
Stroma bit the inside of her cheek. "Of course it's about Max!" She rose to her feet, walked to the window, and stared out at the smoggy Eriadu City skyline as she drew her beige and white robes about her. "My husband didn't come back. No one could flip a switch on a decarbonizer and turn my world right side up again. My husband is still out there somewhere, and I don't even have as much as the comfort or closure of knowing if he's dead or alive!"  
  
Daala raised up on one elbow. "If there was anything they could do to change that, Stroma, I'm sure they would."  
  
"Adrian should have never developed that damned thing to begin with! Then he wouldn't have been hurt in the first one and Max wouldn't be missing because of the utter chaos that has ensued since the loss of the second one!"  
  
"Perhaps . . . perhaps not," Daala speculated as she stiffly sat up on the side of her bed.  
  
"So are you denying you still have feelings for him?"  
  
Daala steadied herself with her arms, and stared down at her feet. "It doesn't matter, because if Typhani dies, Adrian won't be far behind her. You don't understand the bond they have."  
  
"Then how do you explain--no, how does he explain what happened between you two in the Maw?"  
  
"We haven't talked about it."  
  
"What?! Eight months, and you haven't said a word to each other?"  
  
"Not those words, no. We've been so busy. I think we've both been avoiding it. I mean, I'm still coming to terms with why it started in the first place."  
  
"Oh! And on that note, how can you possibly stand to be so close to them after what they did to you, Daala? He made a guinea-whore out of you, and then cost you eleven years of your life, stranded out in the Maw in the middle of nowhere!"  
  
"Those were the best eleven years of my life--those and the five that preceded them, despite the Tarkins' intentions."  
  
"He's brainwashed you, Daala, probably before he ever took you from Carida."  
  
"I'd be dead by now if he hadn't taken me from Carida--and if Typhani hadn't taken me from Pedducis Chorios! Adrian and Typhani are the only people who have ever believed in me, cared about me, listened to me, trusted me, loved me, and treated me like something other than the piece of trash my mother obviously thought I was! If that's brainwashing, then I suppose I have a very clean brain indeed!"  
  
"How do you know it was your mother who threw you away?"  
  
Daala drew her brows together and stared hard at Stroma. She had never considered otherwise.  
  
Stroma continued. "You may very well have a mother out there who has spent her entire life looking for you, and who knows all too well the pain of the loss of a child."  
  
"Not now, Stroma! Not now!" Daala insisted, lying back down. It would be a long time before she would be able to sleep again, thanks to the elemental imps Stroma had awakened in the back of her mind.  
  
Later, and in another part of the medcenter, Adrian struggled to pull himself from under the influence of the drugs he'd been given aboard the Gorgon. "Typhani!" he called out, and started to try to sit up. Morgana sat with him. "Calm down, it's all right," she reassured him as she eased him back. "She's in a bacta tank. Lyjéa and Scythi are with her."  
  
His head seemed to spin as he tried to sort out the events of the last few hours. "Is she going to be all right?" he asked his sister urgently.  
  
Morgana's cheek jerked. "She was pretty bad off for awhile, but she's a little better now. We just have to let the bacta work. There's nothing you can do for her right now. You know you can't get near the bacta. You just need to rest. You were hit twice yourself."  
  
He wasn't concerned about himself. But if he had been hit multiple times . . . "Morgana, where did they hit her? I have to know!"  
  
Morgana, as usual, saw no need to mince words with her brother. "Uh, above the left knee, the left side of her ribcage, and the back of her right shoulder. The shoulder wound is the worst. The blast that caused it would have struck you directly in the head if she hadn't fallen on top of you."  
  
Adrian shuddered visibly, and Morgana reached over to steady him. "Oh, no! Not her! Not again!" His memory shot back to Eriadu, to the time when he'd jumped to conclusions, to the time a renegade faction of the Mining Guild had indeed targeted his wife, overturning the hovercar she was riding in with explosives made from her own megonite, and then made it look as if the assassination attempt had been of a political nature and meant for him instead. The truth came quickly to light that time, but the thought that she had endured blows this time that truly were intended for him made him recoil inside. Had she fallen on top of him, or thrown herself on top of him? "As soon as they get her out--"  
  
She interceded. "Yes, yes, they'll put you together in the same room, we've already seen to that. Then we'll get you both to Villa Galaxia where you can be adequately protected. Aerom says you'll have to triple your security measures."  
  
"Or sequester myself away like Palpatine?"  
  
"Yes, if that's what it takes."  
  
He remembered the other casualty. "Where's Daala? Is she all right?"  
  
"Yes, she's resting. Stroma and Chantir have been with her since they brought you all in. Valdemar is assisting Aerom with security measures."  
  
"They must see to it that Typhani is never exposed to this sort of danger ever again!"  
  
Morgana smiled half-heartedly and shook her head. "You can't keep us in cages, Adrian. Besides, we've dealt with the Alderaan backlash all the while you were in the carbonite."  
  
Adrian stared at his sister. He knew about the Rebel infiltration just prior to the Thirteenth Conclave, and about of couple of other incidents since then involving his wife, but nothing had been said of his sister. "Morgana . . . what haven't you told me?"  
  
"It only happened to me once. It was about . . . about eighteen years ago, I suppose. I was still living on Corulag, and I wasn't home anyway. I don't think they intended to harm me personally, else they'd have been more precise in their planning."  
  
"Planning for what? What did they do to you?"  
  
"It's not important right now." She pushed her chair back a bit and looked away, biting her lower lip slightly.  
  
"Morgana . . . " he pressed her.  
  
"They--the Rebels--they . . . firebombed my compound and--" She had to catch a breath before continuing. "They shot my dogs."  
  
Ever since she was a little girl, Morgana Tarkin had been a being of action. She always had to have something to do, never being content to simply lounge away the life of a privileged socialite. She'd always been an artist at heart, despite her affinity for the military. When the Rebels struck, she had just begun to make a name for herself with her intricately painted sculptures, and her dog breeding activities had won her accolades at top shows across the galaxy. Yet Morgana had not owned a dog or picked up a paintbrush since the incident.  
  
She wiped at the corner of her right eye. "Well, as you can imagine, I nearly drowned myself in the liquor. That's how I ended up in rehab. If it hadn't been for Nolan, I'd have surely ended up like Mother. But you see, the Rebel bastards didn't get me. They didn't have the guts or the capability to strike directly at me. I suppose they thought I'd destroy myself instead, and the pathetic voyeurs would have had a game of a time watching me. They didn't know I had a secret--a secret that is now about to bite them back!"  
  
Adrian knew she meant him. "Yes. And they'll soon rue what they've done to you."  
  
"You know, I heard that it was Leia Organa herself who was behind the incident--her and her husband. Oh, the sordid things I wanted to do to them over the years! But it's so rather ironic--the things I wanted. They've gotten theirs! It's as if the Universe itself has avenged me. I wanted Solo's Wookiee dead, for one thing. And I wanted their personal home incinerated as well. It seems I got the entire seat of the New Republic. In a way, I wish the Vong could be trusted."  
  
Adrian smiled at her. "They can't be," he told her. "But Leia's gotten even worse than that. I know what your dogs always meant to you, Morgana. They were the children you never had. It might interest you to know that Leia's youngest son was killed a few months back, and the Vong have captured her older son."  
  
"That's . . . unfortunate for her. The death of her children I would have never willed upon her. But, even after all these years, and even after everything that has happened, somehow I still want retribution by my own hand."  
  
"And you shall have it!" her brother assured her emphatically.  
  
Just then, Rivoche put her head in the door, then opened it fully, followed by two medtech droids with a hoverchair. Rivoche addressed her uncle. "They've put a headset on Aunt Typi in case she can hear us. Come on." Adrian had already cast his blanket aside before she even finished the sentence.  
  
The quasi-opaque nature of the bacta fluid made it difficult for Adrian to see her clearly, but, for the moment, that was the best circumstance. He moved as close to the bacta tank as he dared and took up the comlink, then glanced around at his sister, niece, and daughters. "Let's leave them alone," Lyscithea suggested.  
  
Rivoche knew of the closeness between her aunt and uncle, as she had relayed it to the New Republic authorities. But some details evaded Rivoche, even Lyjéa and Lyscithea. When it came to "pillow talk" and other intimate types of conversation, Adrian and Typhani had, over the years, developed their own "language," a code of sorts made up of both of their native dialects with Basic intermingled. And so he talked her back from the brink, just as she had so recently done for him.  
  
Slowly, over the next eighteen hours, Typhani's condition improved and then finally stabilized. The attending droids moved her from the bacta tank into a sonic bath to eliminate all remaining traces of the bacta, mindful of her husband's allergy. By mid-afternoon, the staff moved the Emperor and Empress into the same room, dropping the inner rails on the beds and pushing them together. "That's right," Lyscithea observed. "Now we just have to let them heal each other."  
  
When Typhani stirred again, she felt a warm and gentle hand on the side of her face, and then familiar lips upon her own.  
  
"Adrian . . . "  
  
"Yes, I'm right here." He maneuvered around his own wounds and, being careful of hers, pulled her to him and cradled her close. They lay like that for hours, both of them in and out of a light sleep.  
  
Finally, toward late evening, Typhani became a bit more coherent, and, as usual, most concerned for her husband's welfare. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Yes, for the most part. It's you we've been so worried about. We thought we were going to lose you. You've been in a bacta tank for the last day and a half, and so I couldn't even get close to you until now."  
  
Then she remembered--the first shot, at least--and her thoughts went to her immobilized left leg. "Who did this to us?" she asked weakly, painfully. He searched between them for the analgesic self-administrator that he knew would be somewhere in their covers and, locating it, tucked it into her hand.  
  
"The Rebels, naturally. It was a group calling themselves the 'New Alderaan Movement.' All six of their snipers died, though."  
  
"Where's Daala? Is she all right?"  
  
"Yes, she'll be fine. She just took a slight flesh-wound. We got the worst of it, I'm afraid, other than our own security detail. The Rebels got all but one of them."  
  
"We have to stop this carnage . . . "  
  
"We will, rest assured, we will. So much for a flimsy peace accord. I told Gilad it wouldn't last. Aerom is presently bringing the station in to Bastion, and he and Delta Crowal will complete the evacuation of the colony. Now all we have to do is wait for the Rebels to regroup and light somewhere, and, as I've said before, we'll crush the pathetic vermin with one swift stroke, and this time we shall succeed."  
  
"What about the Vong?"  
  
"The Rebels are the reason why they're here. We'll give them the new Jedi--that's what they seem to want the most. And then we'll see what they do. One way or another, we'll make this galaxy safe for order once again-- safe for us and our children and grandchildren."  
  
That sparked her memory, and she looked up urgently at him. "Adrian, the rest of our children, they're all safe."  
  
Somewhat taken aback by the comment, he gently brushed her hair back out of her face, noticing that it shone with an uncommon luster, the effect of the bacta. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"I had the strangest experience . . . they were there! They're with my father. They're all right, and they're waiting for us."  
  
He pulled her close again. "Oh, you were just dreaming. You've been under some very powerful medication, Typhani. I know the effects. I've been there myself, remember?"  
  
"It didn't seem at all like a dream . . . the best part of it was learning that they're all safe, but--" She started to choke up.  
  
"What? What is it?" he asked softly, lightly tracing her cheekbone.  
  
"There weren't five of them. There were six. We would have had twin boys at one point if things had gone better for us . . . "  
  
Now he believed her as he enveloped her in a protective embrace. "I know."  
  
"What?"  
  
He hesitated for a moment. "It was the last time, right before Scythi was born. You were too upset. The loss had been far too great for you. I didn't think you could stand it, so I saw to it you were never told. I only wanted to protect you." She just turned her head into his embrace, pressing her face against his chest, touched by the knowledge that he'd borne that burden alone. And now she truly did need him to protect her, and needed the tender intimacy that always came with it.  
  
As for the scraps of the New Republic, they had in fact already regrouped in a very familiar place--Yavin IV, having been forced to backtrack there from the Shelter base at Maw Installation. The New Republic had been using the remains of the lab to hide Jedi from the Vong, but when the announcement of Tarkin's return came, they decided that it might be safer to risk discovery by only one enemy than two. The Vong, by that point, held the impression that the Jedi had already evacuated and abandoned the Massassi base.  
  
At the Jedi Academy headquarters, Han Solo hurriedly tore a communiqué printout from a newsfeed printer and ran to find his wife. "Leia! We're gonna have company!" he shouted urgently.  
  
"Now what?" she asked wearily.  
  
"New Alderaan just struck on Pedducis Chorios. They hit Tarkin and Daala. Their conditions are unknown, but Lady Tarkin is dead--multiple blaster wounds from the sniper fire."  
  
The first thought that flashed through Leia's mind upon hearing the news was, "My, how convenient for the Admiral!" Still, the New Republic had long since renounced the New Alderaan movement as zealous terrorists. Leia herself had turned its leadership away a decade ago when the group approached her with a plan to find and murder the designers of the first Death Star. And, while she wanted all associated with that project to suffer greatly for their misdeeds, she did not want their blood on her own hands.  
  
Naturally, she wished that the score could have been the other way around, not yet knowing that they'd received misinformation. Or, perhaps not. She knew Tarkin's weak spot--his family--and particularly his wife. She'd always mistrusted all the rumors about Daala somehow. Perhaps this blow would crush him as Alderaan had crushed her.  
  
Leia rubbed her hands over each other as she recalled the two weeks she spent on Phelarion under the harsh influence of the would-be Empress. She recalled also all of the Alliance ships and personnel lost to powerful Imperial weapons loaded with megonite from Lady Tarkin's facility. She wanted to gloat, but with Fey'lya dead, she knew she would have to take the helm of the New Republic again. As such, she could not afford the luxury of gloating and thus have the assassination attached to her name. So, although in her heart she wanted to proclaim congratulations to the terrorists, she knew she would have to act quickly to renounce the act and disassociate herself form the perpetrators, thus again sacrificing her own convictions for the sake of duty.  
  
She looked up at Han. "We better get out of here, fast! We don't want to draw their fire to the Jedi." she said. "I'll prepare a response aboard the Falcon."  
  
No, Typhani Tarkin was by no means dead, but she did lay wounded and shaken by her latest ordeal. She'd gotten a bit warm, and so Adrian had eased her back onto her bed, but still held her hand. He awoke sometime deep in the night to her quiet sobs. He moved over to her, nearly on top of her, slid one hand behind her head and the other behind the small of her back, resting his cheek upon her forehead such that he could easily kiss the tears away. "Why do things like this keep happening to us, and they're getting worse!" she cried. He noticed that she was trembling slightly.  
  
"No, no," he reassured her. "See, we're both here this time. You'll be all right now. And I'm here. I'm still right here." He gently ran one hand up and down her back, mindful of her right shoulder, and poignantly recalled similar comforts he had received not too long ago.  
  
"What are we going to do? How are we going to keep them away from us?"  
  
"Are you that terribly frightened, dear one?" he asked tenderly.  
  
"There are so many of them now! It's just like before, right after Yavin. I told Darth that I was afraid the Rebels might come after me and the girls. He didn't listen, and look what happened at the Conclave! And now they outnumber us so! They've three-quarters of the galaxy! It's just a matter of time before they--they--" She broke away sobbing, and clutched at the pain it caused in her injured chest wall.  
  
Adrian pressed her head to his shoulder. "You don't have to be afraid, Typhani. Thanks to Raith, you don't have to be afraid. We can go aboard the station."  
  
"But they already destroyed two--"  
  
He silenced her with a gentle kiss. "No, not this one. The core design is different. The station is complete, and fully shielded. And, we have a bit of technology the Rebels only dream of--the cloaking device. We can make ourselves invisible to them, indefinitely if we must."  
  
"What about our coronation next month?" she asked.  
  
"We'll just postpone it again if you're not up to it," he told her assuredly.  
  
"No, I don't want to postpone it," she said. "Everything is planned already, and we've already postponed it once. But what if neither one of us can stand?"  
  
"Then we'll sit on our respective thrones just like Palpatine did all those years."  
  
"I wanted it to be so grand . . . "  
  
"And it can still be."  
  
"I hope so," she yawned, finally able to sleep again in her husband's protective embrace, turning her face into the soft folds of his bed robe.  
  
In the morning, Daala slipped quietly into their room and stood with her back to the door, relieved to see for herself that Adrian and Typhani were all right. She felt responsible. The hit happened at her colony. The security should have been better. In her case, though, she thought, everything should be better. She was getting used to falling short of others' expectations, as well as her own. She knew deep down that her new title meant merely a reward for her struggles, restitution for her pain, rather than the caliber of future command it would mean for Flennic, and perhaps Valdemar.  
  
Later that afternoon, Aerom, Valdemar, and a very much enhanced security force arrived to transfer the Emperor and Empress to Villa Galaxia. Daala had been astounded by the estate on Phelarion, but this was perhaps the grandest home she had ever been in--the grand palace of a Grand Moff. Or was it, she reminded herself as she glanced over at Valdemar, who had stayed right by her side during the transfer. She recalled then the strange way he had looked at her on Phelarion right after Adrian came home.  
  
The security relaxed a bit once they were fully inside, and Valdemar escorted Adrian and Typhani to their apartments as the servants appeared to help them settle in. With her left leg in a brace, Typhani found herself using Adrian's walker to get around, as he had reverted to his scooter. Their wounds would heal, they knew, Adrian's on their own, perhaps with the help of traces of the cell regeneration formula still in his system, and Typhani's perhaps a bit faster with regular application of bacta patches.  
  
Valdemar turned to Daala then, offering her his arm. "It would be an honor to escort the Grand Admiral to her quarters." Daala sensed something then, that same warm, guiding, charismatic radiance that she now presumed must emanate from all of the raven-haired, blue-eyed Eriaduan beings known by the name of Tarkin. Tentatively, she took the arm offered her, and leaned slightly upon the offerer, as her own wound had begun to smart again with the agitation of movement.  
  
"You would have been welcome to come here, you know," Valdemar told her as he led her into her luxurious guest suite and eased her into an oversized lounge chair near the door to the balcony. "We would not have turned you away had you come."  
  
"Thank you, Valdemar. That's very kind of you. Naturally, I wish many events had turned out differently."  
  
"Daala, never hesitate to let us know how we can help you. You've helped us in such monumental ways, after all."  
  
She met his gaze. "By failing you?"  
  
"No, no, not at all. By fighting. By standing up for the Empire and what it stands for. By defending and validating my cousin's legacy--my family's legacy. And, by simply being who you are. I could not have asked for a finer female role model for my youngest daughter."  
  
"No, Valdemar. I pale to nothing in Typhani's shadow."  
  
"On the contrary, my dear. Grant me, Typhani is a fine woman, among the finest, and we could not ask better for an Empress. But our family is very deeply rooted in the military. So it is military role models we seek for our children. And, my esteemed Grand Admiral, your career is far from over. May your future brilliantly overshadow the mere setbacks of your past."  
  
"You . . . are entirely too kind," Daala said softly as she looked up at him. She had never before paid attention to Valdemar physically, but now she felt moved to do so. He stood not quite as tall as Adrian, but held a sturdier build, broader in the shoulders, stronger in the chest, equally lean in the midsection. To look at them both, one could see the evidence of blood relation, yet Valdemar manifested a bit stronger jaw line, and his face appeared fuller, his cheekbones not quite as prominent, but with those same piercing blue eyes. Now that she looked at him in that way, Daala found Valdemar to be quite handsome, with a presence like Adrian and a kindness like Liegeus.  
  
A petite figure appeared in the doorway then, and her father motioned for her to enter. "I'm glad you're going to stay with us for a few days," Chantir greeted. Daala smiled at the teenage girl, who was not at all unlike one she used to be.  
  
"Adrian and Typhani are going to be fitted for their coronation robes tomorrow! Isn't that exciting! Did you think the day would ever come!" Chantir sat down on the ottoman opposite Daala's chair as Valdemar excused himself and left them.  
  
"No, I didn't, but I'm glad it's come."  
  
"I heard what Daddy said, but I think you'd make just as good an Empress as Typhani. She was never in the Army or the Navy. Besides, you're prettier and nicer, and you're not so scary."  
  
Surprised by the comment, Daala asked, "Chantir, are you afraid of Typhani?"  
  
"Yeah, I am. She can be really mean. When my mom moved back to Muunilinst when she and my dad got divorced, Typhani and my dad did something really mean to her. No one will even tell me what it was because it was so mean! But whatever it was, I know it really hurt my mom. She cried a lot, and still does sometimes. And she's just terrified of Typhani!" "That's odd. I can't imagine Typhani being cruel to anyone."  
  
"Tell that to Lady Ismaren!"  
  
"Well, that's one exception, and she deserved it."  
  
"Yeah, she did," Chantir agreed, then glanced down at her chronometer. "Eeeks! I have to go for my protocol lesson now! But I'm glad you're staying. Can I come talk to you again later?"  
  
"I'd like that," Daala told her kindly. She was beginning to enjoy the company of children. With that thought, she put her head back and soon dozed, waking at dusk. She decided to go look in on the Emperor and Empress.  
  
Daala stepped out onto the balcony, looking past Adrian at the Eriadu City lights reflecting in the dark water of the bay. He glanced around to acknowledge her. "Are you out here alone? Where's Typhani?" she asked as she sat down next to him.  
  
"Shayla is helping her set her hair. She was having a bit of trouble with that shoulder wound."  
  
"Has Ysanne said anything about why she didn't detect the attack?"  
  
"There's so much disruption with the loss of Coruscant that no one could have possibly foreseen this one. We had adequate security measures in place for the intelligence we had. In the current galactic situation, however, nothing is certain anymore."  
  
"Do you remember how we once thought that we could rule the Empire?"  
  
"Oh, yes," Adrian remembered fondly. "Back when logic and order ruled the day."  
  
"And now?"  
  
"We shall rule all that remains of the Empire. As for the rest, we shall simply do all we can."  
  
"I . . . used to have daydreams about what would happen when you became Emperor."  
  
"Not at all what you dreamed, no?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Then let the excitement and adventure of the unknown await us!"  
  
She laughed slightly. "You still see everything as an adventure, fodder for a conquest."  
  
"To conquer chaos. Think of it, Daala! To reimpose order where there is none."  
  
"You never cease to motivate, either." she observed. She had missed so many wonderful things about him. It was time he knew, she resolved. "Adrian, I . . . I missed you so much. And then when the Rebels told me you were dead, well . . . When I was in the lifepod at Yavin after the loss of the Knight Hammer, and when it didn't look like I was going to get picked up in time, I kept thinking of what an honor it was, what a fitting end for me to die where you had died. I . . . I imagined my pod--myself--being cradled in your essence, and--and I so longed for you to come for me." She looked away, blushing slightly.  
  
He put an arm around her shoulders, as he used to do so often all those years ago. "I can't imagine how difficult it must have been for you all those years with no word. I never fathomed that the station could be vulnerable. Daala, I know I told you not to leave the Installation, but after a year or so, let alone eleven! Didn't you ever suspect that something might be wrong?"  
  
"You commanded me never to leave," she reminded him. "I know we were close, but I also knew you. I--uh--I had concerns that you were testing me, my loyalty, my resolve, and my obedience, and possibly that you might have set some kind of trap for me if I disobeyed you. We--Tol and Qwi and I--we were unclear about your instructions to Qwi to develop another superweapon within nine years. Initially, we never thought that it would be nine years before you would return, but after several months passed, that scenario started to look more and more plausible. Tol sent out coded drones for you a couple of times, but when we didn't hear back, it reinforced my suspicions of a trap."  
  
"Oh, Daala . . . I would have never done that to you, but I can see how you were confused. I should have stipulated a time frame. Typhani gave me quite the tongue-lashing for not leaving you some sealed instructions. Darth could have used your help at Endor. Perhaps events would have turned differently."  
  
"The Galactic Empire--the mournful saga of 'if only,'" she mused, leaning her head on his shoulder. They sat like that in silence for several minutes.  
  
"A stolen moment, this," she observed.  
  
"No, Daala, we don't have to steal moments anymore, not just to be close. Typhani and I both want you to be close to us--you're a part of our family now. And as you can tell, we're a very tactile bunch." He reinforced that with a tight squeeze on her shoulders.  
  
"Yes, I know."  
  
Perhaps the time had come for a particular discussion. "Daala, are you feeling something else?"  
  
She knew immediately what he meant. "No, no, not that, not anymore. I didn't know it at the time, but all I ever really wanted was just to be close to you." She thought back to the first time their relationship had overstepped its mark.  
  
* * *  
  
Their first time came right after they returned from the inspection of Daala's destroyers at the Kuat Drive Yards. They'd gone back to Adrian's Victory class Destroyer, arriving in the middle of the night, shipboard time. They strolled through the corridors to the officers' quarters, hands behind their backs, discussing the day's events. They stopped outside the door to her quarters and stood facing each other in the empty corridor.  
  
Daala had been disappointed before. She knew something was going to happen--eventually--but she no longer wanted to wait until eventually happened. He had comforted and provided for her in every possible way since taking her from Carida, every way but one, and she needed that one to feel complete, the implications to their professional relationship be damned, as well as the fact of his marriage. At that time, Lady Tarkin was merely a distant figure she'd seen only in holograms--stately, reserved, and not quite real in that medium.  
  
She had barely managed to contain herself in the inspection shuttle when he had put a hand on her back and said, "Daala, I am giving you enough power to turn any planet to slag."  
  
"All that power, it makes me, well . . . " She blushed.  
  
"Does it, now?" he teased. He tucked a hand under her chin, then traced down her neck to the top of the collar on her uniform.  
  
She shuddered, and her breathing increased, but she didn't care anymore if he noticed. She ached for him; she wanted him to take her so badly now. Every part of her body and soul screamed out, reached out to him. "Yes . . . and the thought of using it. I've had a good teacher," she breathed softly.  
  
He smiled down at her. Their gazes met, an this time she wouldn't break it, not until she put her chin out a bit and allowed her eyes to flutter closed indicatively. Then at last she felt a hand behind her head as he pulled her to him, and their lips met for the first time. She reached up and locked her arms behind his neck. He then reached down to open the door, and they slipped into her quarters before someone noticed them.  
  
She never wanted to let go of him. As the experience moved into its next phase, he asked her, "Daala, is this your first?"  
  
"No," she told him, "but it's been a long time."  
  
In response to that, he'd been kind and careful, and yet so compelling, so intense--and so utterly fulfilling. Or so she thought. Something was still missing. Afterwards, as she would do many times in the months to come, she drew very close to him, tentatively at first to see if he would allow her. He did, and then she discovered what is was she truly wanted and needed from him in the gentle yet protective way he held her.  
  
* * *  
  
And yet it was all for his own gain, she recalled, for him and the woman in the holograms, the woman he really loved. In a way, she reflected, Stroma was so right. How could she once again affiliate herself so closely with a man who had done such to her, deceived her so? Perhaps it was because she wanted his attention at the time. Perhaps it was also because she would have willingly agreed to help Adrian and Typhani if they had they only asked her. And also perhaps it was because of who he was. Any other man she would have forsaken, even killed, for his treachery, but not Adrian. It was that something about him, that mysterious and unexplainable charisma that rendered him irreproachable in her eyes, and those of so many others as well.  
  
And so she sat there, close to him again, close, but no longer intimate. She had heard Typhani's explanation, but not his. She rested her head on his shoulder. "Adrian, why didn't you just tell me what was going on? I'd have done anything to help you."  
  
"I know," he said, tightening his grip on her shoulders again. "There's not a good answer for that, Daala. Part of it was because we didn't want you to feel obliged or exploited. Part of it was because we didn't want any publicity, and part of it was because, well, because we were just too damned arrogant to ask for your help. We were very wrong for what we did to you, and we're very sorry for it."  
  
"That's really all it meant, then? I was just an incubator."  
  
"No," he continued, putting a hand to her head. "At first, perhaps, perhaps that and genuinely a very good military officer. But then as things progressed, well . . . You see, Daala, you allowed me to reach you in ways that Typhani . . . ways that weren't in her nature--or, at least I didn't know that they were."  
  
"What . . . ways?"  
  
"Oh, Daala . . . it, well, selfish ones. In a way, I suppose it was about control. You see, it appealed to me that you were dependent upon me for everything--for your command and everything it brought you. My wife, on the other hand, had an independent nature and birthright before I ever came into her life. Why, she could have tossed me out on my backside at any point in our marriage and continued to do just fine. At some points, I wouldn't have blamed her if she had! And you allowed me to protect you. When we were on Lumin, though, Typhani and I had a great deal of time to communicate, perhaps more so than ever before. As it turns out, she desperately wanted me to smother her at times, but, because of the war, she felt it would burden me further if she made those needs known, so she never did."  
  
"And if you'd told me of your needs and asked for my help, then that would have meant giving up control of the situation, giving the control to me," she observed.  
  
"I'm afraid you've got me there, Daala. You are as perceptive as ever."  
  
"But you gave me control of the lab--control of your greatest secret. What's the difference, Adrian?"  
  
He shook his head. "I don't know."  
  
"I think I do," she told him. "As much as your career--as much as the Empire--meant to you, your family meant more."  
  
He smiled down at her. "Yes, I think you're quite right. And you're a part of that now, perhaps more than you know." He thought it time she knew something else as well. "It seems you have a secret admirer."  
  
"What?" she asked, looking up at him.  
  
"Valdemar is quite fond of you, Daala. He just isn't quite sure how to approach you."  
  
"I know," she admitted, smiling softly at the thought. 


	16. Coronation

**Chapter 16:**

**Coronation**

Emperor Wilhuff Adrian Tarkin stood tall, regal, and once again ever confident, carefully inspecting his official coronation attire, the flowing velvet robe cascading over a well-tailored new uniform. Having been a military officer accustomed to such all of his adult life, he had not wanted full robes as his predecessor had worn. The new design suited him well; the heavy, jet-black fabric of the new uniform design bore the texture of brushed cotton with a slight sheen if the light struck it just so, durable, yet elegant, with tailoring similar to that of the standard olive green variety he had worn so well for decades. In addition to being black instead of green, the Emperor's new uniforms also bore other distinctions, such as two thin, gold bands about each cuff and a gilt belt buckle engraved with his family crest.

The thick, velvety fabric of the overlying cloak rippled and also shone with a soft luster as he moved. The base fabric and lining were a deep crimson red, almost a burgundy, much deeper and richer than the bright red Palpatine had preferred. The raised black fibers of the velvet gave his cloak, and that of the Empress, an almost iridescent black and red effect. The cloak fastened about the neck with a gold chain with jeweled clasps.

Perhaps the most striking detail of the ensemble, the Emperor's new insignia, glittered brilliantly in its customary place just below the left shoulder. Prominent as the focal point of the golden insignia, the Imperial emblem contained marquis diamonds at the six points of the inner ring, and at its very center an engraving of the first Death Star honored its creator. Two strong yet intricately carved wings flanked the Imperial emblem, and three small but distinct lightning bolts emanated from the underside of each wing. In all, the piece symbolized the Empire soaring to power once again, rising out of the ashes of the Battle of Yavin.

As a military leader, Adrian would not wear a crown, although the Empress would. Instead, his coronation, at the hands of Gilad Pellaeon, would involve a separate black hood, similar to that which Palpatine wore so often, but with sashes bearing the Imperial emblem, embroidered in fine thread of the same crimson-burgundy, that would overlay the front of his cloak. 

The Empress' tiara, recently officially named "Reflection of Coruscant," shone regally in its purple velvet-lined case. Brilliant and beautiful, it now stood as the premier crown jewel of the Empire, also gold, of the most intricate filigree and jewel work, with the Imperial emblem at its center done in the deep blue stones of which she was so fond. He smacked her hand playfully as she reached for it, teasing her. "Not until coronation night!"

Typhani only smiled lovingly at her husband, and continued to check the fit of her own gown and cloak. The smartly-tailored gown was made of the same lush black fabric as his uniform, with gold trim at the sweeping cuffs and about its squared neckline, the design also being a favorite of the tall, broad-shouldered Empress. About her neck she wore a heavy gold rope choker, from which hung a rare and quite priceless multifaceted black diamond, emerald cut, set in a gold rectangular mount and surrounded by even more rare inlaid crimsonspar with a starburst of clearest diamonds in each corner. Adrian did not recognize the piece, but he did recognize the style as he lifted it from his wife's chest to inspect it more closely.

"Cos?" he asked.

She nodded. "It . . . was the last gift I ever received from him, just before Endor," she explained unenthusiastically. She would wear it as a tribute to the fallen Emperor.

The full magnitude of their new roles became almost overwhelmingly real to them as their official coronation date--and their fifty-fifth wedding anniversary--loomed only two weeks away. Adrian thought of Palpatine as he turned the stone into the light. How wonderful, and yet how precarious, their relationship had been, the three of them, the four of them including Darth Vader. Only once, very early in their relationship, had Cos Dantius Palpatine ever overstepped his bounds to encroach upon the Tarkins' marriage, and yet the tension always remained. 

Twenty-five years is an awfully long time, Adrian thought, especially for someone who had been accustomed to marital comforts for the three decades prior to his absence. He had not allowed himself to think about the possibility, especially not after what he had allowed to transpire in the Maw. At first, he felt he had no right. Yet as usual, once the thought had come to the forefront of his mind, he had to know. He had learned that his wife had spent a great deal of time with the ailing Emperor in the months prior to his death.

"He didn't try it again, did he? After Yavin?" he asked.

She tossed her head in mock-exasperation. "Oh, yes, he tried! Of course, he tried!" She met his gaze then. "But he couldn't by then. I used to talk to him, read to him, and keep his nightcap glass full until he fell asleep. I'm glad you weren't here to see the end. He'd gotten so much more ill and so weak. Mara told him not to go to Endor, but of course that only enticed him further. I think he went because he was afraid that if he didn't, he wouldn't live long enough to experience one of the stations. He was down to his weakest remaining clones, and those, well, those just weren't Cos."

Adrian thought back to the Battle of Geonosis--to the start of the whole disastrous cloning debacle. "I can understand that," he commented. "With Bevel, I don't know whether to attribute it to the time we've spent apart or to the cloning, but he's not the same either. Cos never quite learned his lesson in that respect."

"I'd have to attribute the difference to the cloning. Dwyll told me once that she fell in love with two different men in the same form."

"No one ever thought of trying it with me?"

"Darth wouldn't let them! He was so fiercely protective of you, considering all we'd done for him after that fight with Kenobi. He knew. He knew about all the trouble Cos was having with his clones." 

"And you?"

She stared out the window for a moment. "Oh, I was tempted at times. Of course I was. The girls asked me about it several times. But to do it would have meant bringing you prematurely out of the carbonite before there was any chance of saving you--essentially letting the real you go in order to harvest enough to implant in the cloning cylinders. There was no way I could have ever done that to you. And, it also quickly became evident to me that there was no chance of you being brought out of the carbonite as long as Cos was alive--or as long as he believed there was a chance he might have me for himself, that is." 

"That . . . must have been terribly awkward for you."

She looked away again. "I encouraged him to go to Endor. I let him pore for days on end over his Sith books without proper food or sleep. I gave him too much to drink. I didn't insist when he'd refuse to take his medicine. Great stars, how I pushed him toward the edge! I wanted Darth on that throne so badly. He would have needed you. He would have ridden Viorska and the rest of the medical community with that iron fist of his until they found a solution. And then he would have figured out that he couldn't handle the Empire. He would have wanted to find his son instead. That would have been so much more important to him. And, we would have been doing this decades ago," she speculated as she checked the bodice seam of her gown.

He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. "We're doing it now. We can't lament over what might have been. We don't have the time, and can't spare the energy."

"Yes, yes, I know. You're right. But it just took so long . . . "

He drew her closer. "Yes, Typhani, it did. But had it not, we would have spent those years fighting all the chaos that transpired, and now--by now, I'd be something like Raith, or worse, or dead." He tucked a hand under her chin. "But now, with circumstances the way they are, we shall quickly take back as much of this galaxy as possible and spend the rest of our time together in victorious peace and order."

With their coronation the first point of that order, the plans seemed never-ending, and only seemed to grow in complexity as the date approached. Lyjéa lent her rhetorical expertise as she helped her parents plan some of the announcements.

"And then, before we raise the seal, Gilad will activate the microphone and announce, 'I now present to you Their Excellencies, the Emperor and Empress of the Imperial Remnant!'" Adrian suggested.

Lyjéa turned up her rounded Motti nose. "I hate that!" she proclaimed. "I've _always _hated it! Imperial _Remnant! _Besides, we're _not_ a remnant, and haven't been one since Gilad's peace accord!" She began then to tap her stylus on the table forcefully with each word. "Since that time, we have been a _separate entity, a new nation_! We are not and are no longer the 'Imperial Remnant!' We are . . . we are . . . " The Empress Apparent then paused, realizing that she had not thought of something better. Then it came. She grasped her father's hand. "We are _New Impyria!_"

Adrian looked admiringly at his daughter. "Indeed we are."

The list of delegates became the next object of their attention. Problems, problems, problems! Lady Theala Vandron and Lady Chalice Valorum. Invited to the coronation, but not the ball afterward. Protests abounded. The New Republic initially refused to send a delegate, but diplomatic etiquette ultimately prevailed. After many submissions, rejections, and changes, Ponc Gavrisom finally became the official New Republic delegate. At last, all of the details seemed to be in place.

In a few days, the Tarkins went to Bastion, where they would stay through the conclusion of the event, along with their family and many of their principal colleagues--Ysanne, Aerom, Daala, Valdemar, and others. Bastion had fortunately been spared the scars of the past two decades, and the capital city, now renamed Imperial City after its predecessor on Coruscant, appeared very much like a respectable Imperial metropolis of the Palpatine era. The Imperial Capital Complex, not quite an Imperial Palace but spectacular nonetheless, contained office buildings, conference centers, living quarters, its own small spaceport, and several large assembly halls, the largest of which being the five-sided Pentastar Gallery. It is in this chamber that the coronation would take place. Their security detail gave them a bit of space as the Emperor and Empress entered to preview the arrangements for the impending event.

Almost as vast as the former Republic Senate Hall on Coruscant, the Pentastar Gallery also bore similar design features, with hoverpods stacked several hundred meters high lining the walls with a central platform that could be raised and lowered as needed. The sleek black, red, and gold decor marked the gallery as distinctly Imperial.

"Ardus built this," Typhani commented as they entered, not sure of how much of the history her husband had assimilated.

"Yes, I know. Paleb and Gilad gave me the 'grand tour' when I first came here, while you stayed with Daala. Ardus did such a good job--with everything. He held my place well for what brief time he had it. I only wish he could be here for some proper recognition." But then he seemed to take in the surroundings less enthusiastically.

"What?" Typhani asked.

"Oh, it's just that I would prefer this event transpire in Seswenna Hall instead."

"I know," Typhani empathized. "But it won't hold everyone. And with the parameters of our territory the way they are now, this is the best location for our capital."

"Well, yes, but perhaps with some territorial expansion, I can at last bestow upon Eriadu its full worth. 'The Coruscant of the Outer Rim,' they used to call us. Now with Coruscant gone, well, that just leaves Eriadu, then, doesn't it?" the Emperor commented, a bit more upbeat.

"Of course we will have a direct live holofeed to Seswenna Hall, Your Excellency," came a young voice from behind them. Ephin Saretti had come to brief them on logistics, having served as the Chair of the Coronation Planning Committee. "The perimeter of the central platform will be ray-shielded for your protection, of course," Saretti continued. "The central part of the platform itself lowers to allow you to rise from below, so that neither of you will ever be openly exposed within the gallery." But with both of them still recovering from recent injuries, Saretti had to find a way to prevent them from having to stand through the entire event. He worked out a successive raising and lowering of the central platform, with the coronation addresses being delivered from a sitting position on a replicas of Palpatine's Imperial throne while the platform slowly rotated so that everyone in the gallery would at some points enjoy a frontal view. The coronation ball to follow that evening was planned to be a throwback to the extravagant events Palpatine used to host. Indeed, many vestiges of those who had given rise to the Galactic Empire would manifest in the upcoming national events. Then at last, the day arrived.

Security had never been higher at any Imperial event, other than perhaps the transport of Palpatine aboard Death Star II. Delegates found themselves subjected to hours of multiple screenings before being escorted to their assigned pods within the gallery. The Imperial Navy then sealed the entire facility one hour before events officially began. A fleet of twenty _Imperial_-class Star Destroyers, led by Grand Admiral Aerom Flennic aboard the _Chimaera_, protected Bastion itself.

Adrian and Typhani stood arm-in-arm below-stage, dressed in their finest at their finest hour. "I was wrong about something else at Yavin," Adrian mused. Typhani cocked her head questioningly at him. "When Charlie first came for me," he continued, "I told him we could not possibly think of evacuation at our moment of triumph. It wasn't, of course. This, my dear, is our moment of triumph."

"I couldn't agree more," she said with a bright smile.

They listened, as above Ephin Saretti gave some opening announcements. Following that, the Imperial Navy Band played "The Imperial March," a piece that had always been a favorite of Vader's. In tribute to him, the Emperor and Empress had selected it as New Impyria's national anthem.

The platform then descended, and Gilad Pellaeon mounted it to deliver his farewell address, offering the Emperor and Empress a quick salute as the platform began to rise again. Typhani looked over at her husband. "I don't know what we would have done without him," she commented. 

"I know," he agreed. "Try as I might, I can't quite think of a reward commensurate with what he has done to preserve the New Order and protect Imperial citizenry. He shall not want for anything during his retirement." Pellaeon's audience, however, recognized him with a standing ovation. 

In a moderately brief speech, the Grand Admiral likened the Empire's struggles to one great battle, chaotic at times, well orchestrated at others. "We have won because we have survived," Pellaeon declared. "The Rebel leaders and the Imperial High Command of the Hoth-Endor era considered the Galactic Civil War to be a battle to the death. And yet we stand today and deliver the ideal of the New Order to its rightful ruler." As more applause thundered through the gallery, Adrian thought about how easily Pellaeon could have taken power, title, and all for himself, could have named himself Emperor, yet never did so. Pellaeon's very strength seemed to stem from humility, Adrian realized, a brand of strength he certainly did not possess. And yet he was thankful that Pellaeon did. The Grand Admiral concluded his address by recognizing several people who had helped him hold the Empire together, foremost among them Grand Admiral Daala, who stood tall and proud within her shielded pod in her bright white uniform and new insignia, long, red hair still cascading in defiant triumph about her shoulders. Pellaeon also acknowledged the efforts of others including Sate Pestage, Ysanne Isard, and Thrawn.

Adrian and Typhani both twitched a bit as they heard the platform begin its descent. Their moment had come. Hand in hand, they stepped aboard, exchanging only victorious glances.

As the coronation platform began to rise again, Grand Admiral Gilad Pellaeon thought back to the day Paleb Viorska came aboard the _Chimaera_ and disclosed to him perhaps the Empire's greatest secret. Still reeling from the Thrawn imitation scam Moff Leo Disra had orchestrated, Pellaeon didn't initially take Viorska seriously . . .

* * *

Viorska sat down at the conference table across from Pellaeon--the same conference table that had borne the peace accord between the Imperial Remnant and the New Republic. He folded his hands in front of him and met the Grand Admiral's gaze squarely. "You'll have to hear me out, Pellaeon," Viorska warned.

Pellaeon nodded. "I've grown accustomed to hearing people out lately," he commented dryly.

"Very well, then." He leaned slightly across the table toward Pellaeon, and continued in a low but matter-of-fact voice. "Wilhuff Tarkin is alive."

Pellaeon became immediately incredulous. "That's impossible! How can you even suggest such after what we just went through? We can't possibly get away with such a resurrection scheme twice! The populace will never fall for it!"

"You don't understand, Admiral. A command shuttle from the Death Star actually did crash at the Tallaan Shipyards. Tarkin was the only survivor. But . . . back then, there was nothing we could do for him in light of the severity of his injuries and his allergy to bacta. Vader and I froze him in carbonite. If you don't believe me, we can consult with Lady Tarkin. She was present in the room aboard the _Avenger_ when it happened."

Pellaeon's skin paled. He, like everyone else, had believed the Tallaan story to be a mere cover-up for any perceived indiscretions at Yavin. That's what he was supposed to believe, his duty as a military officer to believe it. Now Viorska expected him to believe otherwise.

Pellaeon cleared his throat. "How do we proceed? Can you save him now?"

"My people are still working on it, but yes, I believe we can."

* * *

With a swell of pride he had not felt since the former glory days of the New Order, Pellaeon saluted his audience. With the drop of his hand, the cheers and applause within the auditorium ceased. Without further delay, Pellaeon proceeded to the small, clear plasteel side table and took up the Emperor's hood, then turned to face him. The two men beamed at each other in triumph.

"You've done well, Gilad," Adrian said warmly. "I know I've told you that many times, but you deserve to hear it here."

"Congratulations, my Emperor!" Pellaeon returned. "It's about time." With that, he raised the black hood over the Emperor's head and set it in place, its embroidered sashes cascading down the front of his cloak. 

Adrian shuddered with exhilaration, but in his mind, the pinnacle of the event was yet to come. With a loving glance at his wife, he then stepped over to the side table and took up the Empress' tiara. Returning to her, he set the crown tenderly and triumphantly upon her head, securing the jeweled combs into the twists of her lustrous ebony hair. For a long moment, they gazed at each other with unconditional devotion. They had agreed not to display public affection during the ceremony due to its extreme formality. There would be time enough for that later at the coronation ball. Still, the power and energy of their connection at that moment seemed to fill the entire auditorium.

Pellaeon returned to them and presented the Emperor with his official seal. Moving again to the table, he retrieved the last implement needed to complete the ceremony. From its intricately carved and bejeweled box, Pellaeon removed the famous and spectacular House Tarkin marriage binder, a veritable ribbon of gold and jewels more than a meter long. Returning to the Emperor and Empress, he then wrapped the binder three times around their right wrists as they both held the shaft of the seal. Of course, it was not the first time the binder had been around their wrists, and the feel of it brought back both pleasant and poignant memories for both of them--memories of their youth, of their dreams now made real, and of Palpatine. 

Pellaeon walked over to the table and activated the microphone. Realizing the magnitude of what he was about to say, he hesitated a moment, then spoke clearly and decisively. "I now present to you Their Excellencies, the Emperor and Empress of New Impyria!" Cheers and applause thundered through the gallery.

Facing each other, their right wrists once again bound in marital reaffirmation, the Emperor and Empress raised the seal high into the air. Holocams flashed madly as the jeweled Imperial emblem caught the lights such that it sparkled brilliantly. They held the pose as the platform slowly rotated until the flashes and noise ebbed, an image that for decades to come would signify the resilience of the Galactic Empire and grace commemorative plates, medallions, coins, calendars, and sculpture. The platform descended again momentarily, and the next time the audience saw their leaders, they sat perched proudly on their thrones. 

The raising of the Emperor's right hand brought silence again as he began his coronation address, "From _Visions of the New Order_ to Victory for New Impyria." No one in the gallery had heard a speech like that since Palpatine was alive, and they all knew who wrote Palpatine's speeches. Adrian outlined his plan for the government, and in carefully worded diplomatic terms, plans for expansion. He spoke vehemently against the Vong, explaining how New Impyria would protect itself, and more so against the New Republic, blaming outright the New Jedi Order for the invasion. He outlined plans for a very distant relationship with the New Republic, referring deliberately to the entity as "the Rebels" on numerous occasions. Sharp-eared listeners, those familiar with Tarkin and his rhetoric, could clearly hear the interlaced undertones of possible galactic redomination. He then turned to fiscal matters, detailing plans for funding the military and putting the economy back on track, claiming openly that he had "put aside much during his administration for the future of the Empire." Like Pellaeon, he concluded his address with recognitions, also citing Daala for maintaining the Maw Installation and preserving its work. He spoke highly of Grand Moff Ardus Kaine, who had taken over for him, and of his dear friend Raith Sienar who had unwittingly provided their new nation with protection, and perhaps most favorably of Pellaeon. Then came a moment of silence for Vader and Palpatine. Some posthumous awards followed, including the rank of Grand Admiral to Raolf Motti. Finally, he presented the Empress Apparent in her shielded pod and acknowledged both of his daughters for the sacrifices they made growing up during a war without a father, emphasizing what fine women they had become. And then he gave the floor to one he called "the finest woman in the galaxy," acknowledging his wife's sacrifices and her role in keeping the Empire alive. 

With "Reflection of Coruscant" upon her head, Empress Thanyphania Aradia Tarkin began her own address, "A Tribute to the Women of the Galactic Empire," a treatise of the sacrifices and resilience of Imperial women. In a surprising move, she asked every woman in the gallery and within earshot of her voice who had laid a husband, father, grandfather, brother, son, uncle, cousin, friend, or mentor upon the altar of the Empire to stand. Nearly every female in the gallery stood. The Empress then lauded the accomplishments of businesswomen in the Corporate Sector who kept the economy going while the men fought. Next, she turned to the women who had fought, and for the third time, Daala basked in the spotlight, along with Ysanne Isard, Delta Crowal, Morgana Tarkin, Yasinda Bardak, and Sandrex Olotho. The Empress then turned to matters of education, literacy, and the welfare of children, concluding with an emphasis on the importance of keeping families together. Her address would be forever tied to and equated with a family portrait including herself and her husband at center, surrounded by their daughters and grandsons, Rivoche, Kormath, Bevel Sr. and Dwyll, Morgana, Nolan, Shayla, Valdemar and his children, Raine, Daala, and Sabine. The photo would be broadcast across the holonet with the caption, "The Tarkins: An Imperial Family."

Another photo that would circumnavigate the galaxy became the one of the Emperor and Empress sitting on their thrones atop a raised platform flanked by crimson-clad Royal Guards at the head of the Grand Ballroom within the Imperial Capital Complex. Not until all guests had been accounted for and the room sealed would they mingle, their platform also ray-shielded. Guests could leave the ball at their discretion, but once out, they could not get back in. Among the many comers included Drost and Marielle Elegin, Nasdra and Elizie Magrody, Irek and Shenna Ismaren, with Shenna visibly pregnant, Rodin Verpalion, Domima Tagge, Stroma Veers, and Retired Admiral Kenneth Firmus Piett, whom Adrian hoped to talk out of retirement and back into service, enticing him with one of the remaining Grand Admiral posts if he must. Piett had been a good tactician, level-headed, and competent in all areas. He had already emerged from retirement once, to assume Daala's post by Pellaeon's side after the Grand Admiral's misfortune at the hands of Garm Bel Iblis. 

Throngs more hoped to gain the Emperor's ear, however briefly, many by first approaching an Imperial Council member or Tarkin family member. One such guest quickly linked up with Lyscithea, as the pair had known each other as children. Of course, Adrian did not recognize the young black man, a military commander, his uniform impeccable. "It's Saedrek Darre," Lyscithea revealed with a smile.

"Good gracious, I remember the day you were _born_!" the Emperor recalled fondly. "What a fine young man you have become! How is your mother?" he asked of his dedicated former secretary Friedra Darre.

"She couldn't attend because she can't get around much these days, but she sends her love and congratulations. Also, I just wanted to thank you personally for all you did for my mother and me when I was young," Saedrek replied. Friedra had been a single mom, raising her son alone, and Adrian had always made sure she had the time to do it properly. She had returned the favor with unquestioning loyalty, dedication, and hard work. Looking at the young officer who stood before him, Adrian realized that his actions on Friedra's behalf had paid off.

"Oh, Adrian, look!" Typhani prompted him as Lyscithea and Saedrek stepped away. It seemed that Valdemar was trying to teach Daala to dance. The two had been inseparable in recent days.

"That's encouraging," Adrian said softly to his wife. The sight of two Grand Admirals arm-in-arm in their white uniforms made for a classic Imperial moment.

The Empress and her daughters continued to work the room, meeting briefly with influential people they knew. The Emperor, meanwhile, had taken Piett aside, and the two seemed to be "talking technical." Daala, Valdemar, and Pellaeon watched pensively, and when they saw Piett salute, they both made affirmative sounds. "Yes!" Daala exclaimed. "We need him! He'll be excellent against the Vong."

"It doesn't surprise me," Pellaeon commented. "It's his preservation instinct. He has something to protect now. He finally married recently. Apparently, Piett took in his flagship to propose toher. She wasn't expecting a Destroyer."

"My, that must have been quite an escort," Valdemar commented.

"Not quite," Daala said, glancing over at Adrian. "I had someone come to Carida with a whole fleet of _Victory_-class Destroyers to rescue me."

"That's right, you did, didn't you?" Valdemar remembered, patting Daala on the back. "He should have brought you to me straight away." 

As the evening progressed, guests fell into their own chosen groups by relationship or political affiliation. Raine, her partner Xanadira, Lyjéa, and Sabine had established a corner of their own. And then, some began to leave. Daala and Valdemar had already disappeared. Adrian and Typhani smiled curtly at each other when they realized the pair had gone.

In all, everything had gone extremely well. Ysanne reported only a couple of security issues, and there had amazingly been no assassination attempts. Even Ponc Gavrisom had been civil.

As the last of the guests departed the ballroom, the squad of eight crimson-clad Imperial Royal Guards closed rank around the Emperor and Empress and escorted them to their luxurious private quarters within the Imperial Capital Complex. Because the guards completely surrounded the couple, no one could see that two of them had been assigned to help Adrian along the walk back through the auditorium to his scooter. 

Once inside their private quarters, they each seemed to let their guard down, releasing the high formalities of the day. Adrian dismounted his scooter, unclasped his cloak, and cast it over the back of a chair. Remarkably, though he was a bit stiff, he didn't seem as tired as Typhani thought he would be. She attributed it to the exhilaration and triumph of the day's events. 

According to their mutual Outer Rim customs, they had reaffirmed their wedding vows, or, in their case, _vow_, each year on the occasion of their anniversary, a simple yet sacred vow to support and nurture one another through whatever the coming year may bring. During "the carbonite years," as they had come to call them, Typhani had renewed her commitment to her husband every year in the journals she kept for him. The coming year would bring a dark terror indeed, one that could destroy the Tarkins and their new Empire.

"Whatever the year may bring," they repeated to each other, folding together as their passions began to consume them. Typhani reached up to embrace Adrian and put her head back as he lifted her cloak from her shoulders and allowed it to drop behind her. 

"Take me, Adrian. The way you used to . . . "

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	17. A Distant Threat Approaches

**Chapter 17:**

**A Distant Threat Approaches**

Sernpidal.

Ithor.

Duro.

Coruscant.

Kalarba . . .

And now Chandrila, the homeworld of the late and beloved Mon Mothma. Warmaster Tsavong Lah hissed menacingly as his worldships and coralskippers made their way toward their next potential conquest. And after that, he mused, it would be on to that new nation in the Outer Rim. At that, he would strike directly at the heart, and at perhaps the most offensive world to his kind in the entire galaxy. In good time.

The remnants of the New Republic scrambled to mount a defense of Chandrila, with Wedge Antilles and his Rogue Squadron searching the galaxy frantically for weapons and ammunition, commandeering the lots of every outpost and munitions base they could find. And they did find many, including several abandoned Imperial refueling stations, ultimately arriving at Tsoss Beacon, the site of a massacre orchestrated by one now Grand Admiral Daala. To his relief, Wedge and his crew found a warehouse of old ammunition the Imperials thought not worth taking with them, but that had been left behind intact, "just in case." Rogue Squadron hungrily loaded as many of the ordinates into their ships as they could carry and made haste for Chandrila. Just off the system boundary, the squadron joined up with the forces of Admiral Ackbar and General Garm Bel Iblis to wait for the Vong assault.

-- -- -- -- --

In starkest contrast, across the galaxy on the planet Phelarion, life could not have been more normal. For the first time in her life, Rivoche Tarkin had looked forward to going to the lake. She reclined languidly on a chaise lounge on the screen porch of her aunt's beloved lake house, sipping on a glass of fruit-laden tea. Rodin Verpalion sat nearby, puffing aristocratically on his pipe, his reading glasses perched with perfect decorum upon the tip of his nose. Outside on the open deck, Yorg Motti robustly tended the barbecue pit. In the yard, several boys kicked a ball around, and, behind them, Daala was engaged in an enthusiastic game of netserv with Paige and Chantir. Ysanne Isard, Liz Magrody, and Delta Crowal chatted aimlessly in the breakfast nook. 

"Daala!" the boys shouted, and she left her net to join in the mock-smashball game as some other guests roared past on speeder bikes.

"This place is wonderful, isn't it?" Paige commented as she entered the porch and allowed the screen door to clap shut loudly behind her.

"Yeah," Rivoche agreed. "But I used to hate it."

In the kitchen, Typhani, her cousin Daphne Motti-Kazeronno, two servant droids, and Raycellna busied themselves at the island, stocking it high, when Wilhuff came running around the corner. "Gramma," he said, "Uncle Nasdra says Uncle Yorg needs a _good_ knife!" 

Typhani withdrew an appropriate piece of cutlery from its block, and drew it back as her grandson reached for it. "Oh, no," she said, "the droid will take it to him."

Out on the front veranda, Valdemar paced nervously. "I'm in love with her," he admitted.

"Then you should tell her, now. Too many things can happen," Adrian insisted, working steadily with his datapad.

"Of course, you're right, but how, when, _where _. . . I'm going mad, I tell you!"

Adrian pointed toward the lake with the stylus of his datapad. "See those boulders over there, far off, with the water cascading against them?"

"Yes," Valdemar acknowledged, putting his hand above his eyes to block the afternoon sun.

"There. At sunrise. Go there with her, wrap her in your arms, and tell her you're in love with her."

"You sound so sure!"

"I am. It worked quite well for me."

Valdemar nodded in understanding.

Adrian and Typhani heard them slip out the next morning, and had been watching from the dining room window. "We've passed it on now," Adrian said, casting an arm around Typhani. They watched nostalgically as the amorous younger couple twirled atop the boulders in the breaking daylight, Daala's still-fiery hair swirling about her and catching the early morning rays of the sun. The wished they could see her eyes, now completely devoid of the dead-ash look they held when Typhani first approached her on Pedducis Chorios.

"Yes. Isn't it wonderful? She's happy! At last, our Daala is happy!"

-- -- -- -- --

Not so much could be said for the people of Chandrila, however. New Republic forces and Chandrila's surface defense were taking a severe beating at the hands of the Vong until Rogue Squadron arrived, fully armed. Wedge Antilles moved his ship into the lead position. "All right, fighters! Let's clean house!"

Antilles fired first, and his missile struck headlong a Vong coralskipper, obliterating it totally, as would be expected from such a direct hit. But then, two nearby coralskippers reeled, gyrated wildly, then inexplicably crashed into each other, as if the first explosion had somehow disoriented or knocked out their pilots or jammed their instruments. Taking no time for speculation, Rogue Squadron continued the assault, with similar results from all the Rogue hits. Ackbar's and Bel Iblis' fighters scored only normal hits, sometimes requiring multiple shots to disable or destroy the Vong ships. 

Below on the surface, some cities burned, and several wildlife areas took a severe scorching from Vong bioweapon, but before the planet's plight reached a critical stage, the Vong began to retreat. They had never done that before, not at this stage in battle. Rogue Squadron pursued, still not taking the time to question their newfound effectiveness, destroying fleeing Vong fighters and causing others to continue to spiral out of control, until all of the munitions were spent and the enemy had completely fled the system. 

"Ran 'em clean outta here!" Garm Bel Iblis boomed as he entered the briefing room aboard his flagship. "That was a great fight, Wedge! What kind of newfangled munition have you got in those launchers?"

"Nothing special at all. Just standard Imperial TIE torpedo ordinates. 'Came form Tsoss Beacon. There's a whole warehouse full--we loaded all we could carry . . . " Antilles and Bel Iblis faced each other across the briefing room table. "The ordinates? Do you think it was the ordinates, General?"

"It was obviously _something_," Admiral Ackbar interceded. "And we must find out what. This could be our salvation! I shall notify the President. We must proceed at once to Tsoss Beacon!"

As Ackbar went to contact Leia Organa-Solo, Tsavong Lah assessed his losses. Rattled, but undaunted, he regrouped and decided to move forward with the next phase in his plan for galactic domination. Chandrila could await waste another day.

-- -- -- -- --

Back on Phelarion, Daala went into the house for a bath sheet to dry her hair after a dunking in the lake at the hands of her beloved. As she neared the linen closet at the far end of the hallway, she heard the subspace transponder in Adrian's study off the master bedroom beeping--emitting a maximum alert sequence. She immediately snapped to attention, and rushed to the transponder.

Valdemar nearly choked on his barbecue when Daala ran up behind him and grabbed him by the shoulder. "We have to go, _now_! They're coming straight at us!" Valdemar almost knocked his chair over as he scrambled to his feet. He knew what she meant.

"Adrian!" Daala shouted as she jogged up to him in the yard. She motioned for Ysanne to join them as she passed her. "Kenneth is on his way to lift us out of here. It's the Vong--they're coming this way! We have to mobilize the fleet--_now_!"

Without a moment's hesitation, the Emperor shifted into battle mode. "All right. Piett's fleet isn't assembled yet. Valdemar, take the _Gorgon_, rendezvous with Flennic at Yaga Minor, and prepare the fleet for full assault. You'll await your coordinates there. I'll command the station myself--Daala, you come with me. Do we know where they plan to hit?"

Daala looked up into the sky toward the east, then quickly back at the Emperor. He knew.

He grasped her wrist. "No! Not there!" For the briefest of instants, the image of a face flashed through his mind, a young woman's face, aghast with indignant horror, her large brown eyes unbelieving . . . He shook his head slightly, and the image was gone.

Valdemar's jaw dropped open, as he stood momentarily paralyzed by the news. Adrian snapped him out of it with orders. "Go call Morgana at Villa Galaxia and tell her to get everyone out of there!" he snapped. "Typhani!" he then shouted to his wife across the lawn.

She looked around, and when she saw the group that had assembled around her husband, she knew it was trouble. She ran up to him, her question in her eyes, just as they heard the unmistakable sound of an inbound Imperial shuttle overhead. "The Vong are coming at us," he told her frankly. "I'm mobilizing the fleet. You're coming with us--we're taking you and Ysanne to Bastion. I want you to get on the holonet and issue a statement reassuring the populace."

She took a step back. "What? Me? But--" she squeaked.

He took her by the shoulders. "You are not a consort ruler, Typhani. You ascended as an equal partner in this imperium. I have to command the station and drive this pestilence out of our territory. You have to hold everything together at the capital. Ysanne will help you. Do you understand?"

"Yes . . . " she said, somewhat uncertainly. 

"Now go tell everyone else to get back to the estate and get into the bunkers! I've got to comm Flennic and tell him we're on our way."

Meanwhile, Daala mounted a speeder bike and proceeded to the nearby landing pad, where she guided the shuttle in. Grand Admiral Kenneth Firmus Piett descended the ramp. "No retirement for the weary," he greeted his fellow also-once-retired Grand Admiral as he mounted the bike behind her for the ride back to the lake house, where everyone quickly donned their uniforms, grabbed a few essentials, and soon departed.

-- -- -- -- --

After the close save at Chandrila, Wedge Antilles and Rogue Squadron, along with Admiral Ackbar and Han and Leia Solo, made their way back to Tsoss Beacon to investigate the mysterious munitions that had proved so very effective against the Yuuzhan Vong. Han and Wedge pulled open the doors of the dilapidated warehouse as a special ordinates crew went inside and retrieved one of the subject missiles. Everyone backed away as the droid crew placed the warhead in a blast-shielded tank, removed the outer shell, and disarmed the firing mechanism. Only then were the humans allowed near again, to open and investigate the compartment containing the actual ammunition source and its detonator. 

"Some of these ordinates are over fifty years old," Wedge commented as he worked to open the crusty internal compartment. "I'm surprised they still work at all. Here we go. Okay, I've got it open." He paused for a moment, hardly believing what he saw. "It's a megonite ordinate. I haven't seen any of these in . . . "

Han looked thoughtful for a moment. Then, his face lit up with unbridled exuberance. "Blast it! Why didn't we think of that before! Megonite is _organic_! Of _course _it'll work against the Vong! Quick, Wedge, what's the source code on that detonator?"

"Uh--OMS/PHEL," Wedge read, shining a small light into the dark interior of the warhead.

Then Han remembered where megonite came from, and his exuberance quickly turned to gloom. "Octovano Mining Systems, Phelarion," he extrapolated, his voice falling away. "Wedge, there's only one place left where we could get enough megonite to do us any good, and that's on Phelarion--now none other than Tarkin Megonite."

Leia sighed, and her head went into her hand. "Tarkin will let us die," she said disdainfully.

"Perhaps," Ackbar observed, "but I don't think Lady Typhani will. She's a mother as well, you know. And, the megonite is _hers_."

-- -- -- -- --

Unbeknownst to the New Republic, New Impyria was at that very moment experiencing its own initial encounter with the Yuuzhan species. Several Vong vessels were closing in on Eriadu, coming around the back way along the direct trade route with Phelarion. The Vong had targeted Eriadu, with its heavy industry and manufacturing, because of their extreme dislike of mechanical technology. They saw the Imperial technological stronghold as an abomination to their gods, boldly disregarding the fact that they were targeting the homeworld of the new Emperor.

As he stepped from the shuttle ramp onto the docking bay deck, a ruffle of shivers initially ran down Adrian's spine. He looked over his shoulder at Daala. "It feels at once so strange and yet so exhilarating to be aboard a Death Star again," he commented. Larger than the first station but smaller than the second, the interior of the Sienar Death Star very closely resembled its predecessors. When Adrian looked back at Daala, and past her at the shuttle in which they'd just arrived, another flash of memory came fleetingly. Another shuttle, from another time, with his wife's cousin, Admiral Raolf Motti, standing at the base of the ramp reaching for him . . . No time for that now, he demanded of himself as he pushed the thought from his mind. "We must proceed at once to the overbridge," he snapped. "There isn't much time. There never is."

The Emperor sat poised and ready for the unwelcome invaders in the command center of the Sienar Death Star, his _Vong Crusher_, turbolasers already fixed and hot, hungry for Vong prey. The predators had stayed out of the galaxy when Death Stars had existed before, knowing they would be severely outgunned if they challenged the Force-insensitive Galactic Empire. But that Empire lived still, as did its new Emperor, and his new Death Star.

But as the Vong ships exited hyperspace, something utterly inexplicable happened. The ships suddenly and violently reeled about, several crashing into and destroying each other. Adrian and Daala watched the spectacle with fascination and intense curiosity, as well as sheer amazement.

"Something has disrupted their navigation systems," Adrian observed.

"Open hailing frequencies," Daala commanded the nearby comms officers. "Let's see if we can hear what's going on aboard the enemy ships."

No sooner had her order been obeyed than everyone in the command center put their hands over their ears in a gesture of protection. From the comm ports emanated screeching, gravelly, high-pitched wails that sounded in unison like a huge wild animal experiencing a very unnatural death. As the Vong quickly retreated without a single advance on Eriadu, the awful noise subsided into a squealy hiss. 

Daala and the Emperor gaped at each other. "What in the universe . . . " Adrian ventured, staring at the images of burning and exploded Vong vessels on his viewscreen. With the crisis abated, he sat back, relieved that his beloved native Eriadu was presently out of danger. As he watched, though, the debris of the pre-empted battle seemed to take on a different form, a form from a part of his past he had not yet fully recovered. That young woman's face--he could see it again in a flash--now drawn with some sort of unspeakable anguish. And yet he heard her speak, as if in a ghostly yet somehow prophetic recording from the depths of his own soul, _"Oh, Tarkin! If ever there was a shred of humanity in you or these twisted creatures of yours, it's dead now! You are at war with life itself! You are enemies of the Universe! Your Empire is doomed!"_ Enemies of the Universe? His Empire doomed? The Vong . . . 

"Come on, we should track them," Daala urged.

"What? Oh, yes," he realized. But as he tried to get up, his legs buckled beneath him, and he sank back into his command chair.

"Are you all right?" Daala asked, drawing her brows together in concern. 

"It's just a bit much, this, that's all," he reassured her--and himself. 

Daala turned on her heel to one of Adrian's red-robed Imperial Royal Guards. "You, there, guard!" she snapped. "Go to the conference room and bring the Emperor's hoverscooter at once." The guard promptly obeyed, and they made their way to the scan room.

"They're headed back to the Core, through the Sluis Sector, it looks like," Daala noted. Valdemar's fleet is in pursuit, taking out as many of them as possible."

"He can't take out an entire sector! Whetever are you talking about, Daala?"

Daala's head snapped around in concern. She lowered her voice. "Not the sector, Adrian, the Vong. The enemy ships. Valdemar's fleet is pursuing and destroying them as they come out of hyperspace," she explained. Then she noticed how pale he was.

"Daala . . . your fleet is supposed to protect the lab! Whatever are you doing here!"

She moved close and put a hand on his shoulder, only to discover the tremors. He stared past her, unable to focus.

That young face flashed before him again, those pleading eyes. "Daala . . . " But it wasn't Daala. It was someone else. He couldn't remember who, couldn't quite put the memories together with his knowledge of present events. They weren't full memories, really, just flickers.

"Come on," Daala said, and navigated the scooter to his quarters, where she sat down in front of him. "Adrian, what is it?"

He still looked past her. "I can't remember . . . "

"What can't you remember?" she asked, then suddenly realized the utter redundancy of her question.

He looked away. "It's nothing, just images really. I can't quite make sense of them."

Daala then realized at once that he might be starting to recover his memories of the destruction of Alderaan. In their present circumstances, she could see how easily that could happen.

"Are you feeling disoriented? Do you need to go down to the medcenter?"

"No. I'll . . . I'll be all right. I just need a bit of quiet right now, I think," he told her, and then moved from his scooter onto the bed. "Let me know straight away if the situation changes at all."

"All right, then," she conceded, and rose to let him rest. Perhaps that would drive away the demons for now.

"Daala," he called after her. "Don't leave just yet." He wanted quiet, but didn't want to be alone.

Daala sat back down, unsettled, a slight knot in her stomach. Adrian shortly fell asleep, and so Daala returned to the scan room and then the overbridge to monitor the battle situation, advising Valdemar to pull back at the far border of the Sluis Sector. "That's New Republic territory," she told him. "It's their problem now." Valdemar smiled inwardly. Her recklessness was gone, he noted, tempered once again by Adrian's guiding hand. Valdemar promptly returned quite victorious from a very successful Vong-extermination spree through the Sluis and Seswenna Sectors, with only minimal damage to his own fleet. Another Tarkin at the helm, Daala thought. And soon, she mused, she would be one of them, not only in spirit but also and at last in name as well. "The_ Vong don't stand a chance now!"_

-- -- -- -- --

Undaunted, Warmaster Lah regrouped his forces at Duro and set up for their next hit. "Ssssssquid!" he hissed as his ships set course for Mon Calamari. The word soon came in urgently to the temporary New Republic headquarters back on Yavin IV. 

"Someone must go to Bastion--a delegation of us, perhaps," Garm Bel Iblis noted ruefully, tapping the corner of a datacard on the conference table. "We need to find out if they will help us, and if there may perhaps be a more effective way to use the megonite. We need to figure out specifically how it affects the Vong."

"Qwi and Ghent are already working on that, but they don't want to use too many of the ordinates we have in their experiments," Leia explained. 

Ackbar spoke up then, prepared to risk himself and sacrifice his dignity once again for the sake of the Republic and for his homeworld, even if it meant a return to forced servitude. Lady Tarkin would listen to him, and _she_ would help, even amid her husband's protests. This he knew in his heart. "I must do this," he said solemnly. "It is my homeworld that is in danger."

"To face Tarkin . . . " Leia breathed. "Ackbar, no!" She feared for his life.

Tarkin. Leia hadn't thought much of him since the incident at Pedducis Chorios a few months previous, too busy holding the scraps of her own nation together. Why couldn't the snipers have hit him harder, she lamented. Then she remembered that most gracious statement she had issued at the mistaken word of Lady Tarkin's apparent death. Had she actually died, it would have been precious little satisfaction at the time, and now, Leia realized, the galaxy itself may be fortunate that it had been a mistake. But as for her husband, Leia felt there was no hope. In her mind, the man was completely insensitive, totally unredeemable, utterly impervious to the suffering of others or the concept of compassion. This time, her words, her last-ditch plea, echoed in her own ears, _"No, Tarkin! Please, I beg you in the name of mercy, please!" _But it had been to no avail. The man did not understand mercy. Perceiving it was not within his realm of capability. This she knew with steadfast certainty as she watched her world explode before her eyes. Another would definitely now make no matter to _Emperor_ Tarkin.

"I know them well, if you recall, _personally _well," Ackbar reminded the others. "And, I would advise that we approach the Emperor not on Bastion in his official capacity, but on Phelarion or Eriadu--at home--_out_ of his official capacity, perhaps even by surprise. Recall the "gentle streak" I spoke of? However we do this, we must approach him on a personal level, out of uniform. That is our only hope of reaching him."

"What exactly do you have in mind, Ackbar?" Bel Iblis asked.

"I must go to Phelarion by myself. I think I can reach that 'gentle streak.' Even if I can't reach the Emperor, I believe I can reach the Empress."

"If we only had a bargaining chip, something to offer them," Bel Iblis ventured.

"Well," Han spoke up. "I don't think Empy Willie knows that his lab wasn't completely destroyed. It's of no more use to the JedI, not with him back in the picture. We might as well give it back--or _trade_ it back for their help."

All eyes turned to Leia for a decision. "Yes. Give him back his precious Maw Installation if that's what it takes to get the megonite. But Ackbar, I really wish you wouldn't do this alone."

"The fewer of us that are in danger, the better, Your Excellency," Ackbar noted. 

"He's got a point, Leia," Han said. "It'd take weeks to arrange an official summit with them, weeks we ain't got. Doing it the diplomatic way would mean sacrificing Calamari. I don't think Ackbar's prepared to do that."

Leia looked longingly at Ackbar. "Just be careful," she conceded.

-- -- -- -- --

The flight to Phelarion proved a long and arduous one, and Ackbar found himself already exhausted upon arrival. The guards at the Tarkins' security perimeter were not sympathetic, as it was late in the evening and the Emperor and Empress did not take audiences without prior appointment, especially with such alien Rebel scum trash as a Mon Cal. Yet Ackbar persisted, providing some very personal information that ultimately got him to Aerom Flennic, who recognized him immediately. Fortunate was Ackbar that evening. Lady Isard had retired early to her bedchambers. Had he been referred to her instead . . . But Flennic put through the request, figuring it would be the easiest way to be rid of the creature--by firing squad, he was certain.

"Yes," Typhani acknowledged, depressing the comm button on her night table.

"There is a persistent Mon Calamari at the perimeter who insists upon speaking with you and the Emperor. We would have turned him away, except he claims to know you both and your daughters personally. He says he used to live with you as a servant, and that he desperately needs your help. Based on this information, I believe him to be none other than the Rebel Fleet Commander, Admiral Ackbar. How shall I proceed?"

"Ackbar!" Typhani gasped. She depressed the button again. "Is he alone?" she asked.

"Yes, he is alone, and unarmed," Flennic reported. "Shall I assemble a firing squad?"

"No!" the Emperor ordered, reaching over his wife to take the comm port. "Guard him closely and escort him into the downstairs reception room. We'll be there shortly. As I've said many times, there are some pleasures I reserve for myself." 

The Emperor and Empress rose from their evening tea and wafers to prepare for the impromptu audience. "He'd better have a good explanation for his behavior, after all we did for him," Adrian declared as he put on his formal reception robe. "Need my help indeed! Fine specimen he is to come groveling back at my feet after he tried to kill me and Bevel!"

Typhani whirled around at that. "What?!" she snapped, shocked and surprised, her deep violet robes flowing around her as she moved.

"Oh, my. I never told you," Adrian realized, walking over to where she stood. "When the Rebels attacked, Ackbar dropped the shuttle's shields. He said . . . that _he_ had brought the attack upon me in turn for what I'd done to him and his people."

"What you'd done . . . But Cos was absolutely insistent on that subjugation! If not you, then Worrell and Takur would have done it on their own! Why, Ackbar would have died in one of those unconverted cargo containers with all the rest! Or Worrell would have put him down instead of giving him to you! You saved his life, Adrian! And he never once in nine years indicated that he was anything but grateful!"

"I know. I don't understand it myself, but I'd like to. Let's hear what the Rebel admiral has to say, shall we?" As they stepped from their private chambers into the upstairs hall, their red-robed guards clustered protectively around them, then assembled themselves on either side of the entrance to the main reception room on the lower level of the estate. 

Ackbar stood alone in the center of the stark marble floor of the reception hall as the Emperor and Empress entered. At first, he did not look up, a Mon Cal gesture of humility. But then he met their gazes, harsh and judgmental. Adrian's face darkened a bit with anger, and he turned to his Royal Guards. "Maintain your arms at the ready. We may have to dispose of this one, on my mark."

"On your mark, Your Excellency," one of the guards responded, raising his blaster rifle.

Ackbar looked to Typhani, but found no sign of acceptance or support on her face. Nearly three decades had passed since he'd seen her in person. To him, she still bore that austere, stately, and severe glare that she always had, older now, yet still resolved, still firm. He recognized her public face well, yet he still knew her private one. 

"Well, well!" Adrian smirked, turning back to Ackbar, clasping his hands behind his back. "So it's _Admiral_ Ackbar now, is it? I wonder where you might have acquired such skills." 

Ackbar made no move, and kept his hands in full view of the guards. "Your Excellency," he began respectfully. "I know I have no right--"

Adrian cut him off. "You certainly have not! Traitor! How dare you come crawling back here after that _little stunt_ you orchestrated off the Eriadu jump point! I told you once, you fool, that you would die for your folly! And now the time has come! Come here to _die_, have you? Why you would come skulking back is beyond me. Obviously, you've gone quite mad--even madder than you ever were. And we put mad animals like you down here in the Empire."

Ackbar lowered his head, but spoke resolutely. "I come here for the sake of my people. I care not what happens to myself, just as I did not on the fateful day you speak of. I recognize that you neither understand nor accept the concept of selflessness, but--"

"Enough of your insults, alien!" the Empress shouted. "You blatantly tried to kill my husband--to destroy our family, of which you were a member, I might add--and you call yourself selfless?"

"I have family as well, Lady Tarkin, on Mon Calamari, which now faces dire threat from the Yuuzhan Vong."

"So _that's_ where they've gone," Adrian noted, softening a bit. Perhaps he could extract a good bit of information from his former servant before terminating him.

"Yes, Your Excellency. And now you as well know what it is like to have your homeworld threatened." As he had planned, Ackbar moved quickly to direct the discourse to a more personal level.

"Well, yes, Ackbar. I'm afraid so."

Ackbar once again lowered his head in respectful submission. Now he would play to the Emperor's ego, as large as ever. "My world has faced such danger numerous times, twice by your own hand, Your Excellency, again by your World Devastator technology, and yet again by one of your lead admirals, the Grand Admiral Daala. And yet now it seems that the Vong will accomplish all that you could not. Without your help, the Vong will vanquish your record on the field of battle in one single assault."

As Ackbar expected, the Emperor drew back at that realization. "And what do you possibly think I can do abut it now, Ackbar? The Vong encountered some sort of technical difficulty at Eriadu, we're not sure what, and since you and your Rebel kind in your infinite wisdom destroyed my research facility, we're at a great disadvantage at discovering what it was. You've dug your own graves, Ackbar, by defying the Empire. Were the whole of the Empire still intact, I very seriously doubt we'd all be facing this pestilence now. It is indeed a grim fate you have brought upon yourselves."

Ackbar played his first gamepiece. "Your laboratory at Maw Installation is not destroyed, Your Excellency. Not completely, that is. Indeed, the reactor node did go critical after being struck by the _Gorgon's_ fire, but it broke away, as designed for such emergency, leaving several of the other modules relatively intact. These we reconditioned a few years ago as what we believed to be a safe location away from the Vong, to protect our leaders and the members of the Jedi Academy. However, we abandoned the facility upon learning of your return." Ackbar withdrew some holoplates from his beltpack. "May I approach?"

Adrian glanced around at his guards, who raised their rifles a bit in acknowledgment. "Yes, all right, let's see what you have there."

Ackbar extended the holoplates of the reconditioned Maw Installation, and explained accordingly. "This is the new reactor module we installed. A team of engineers from Calrissian's operation on Kessel then stabilized the rest of the remaining structure, as you can see here. Four nodes were unrecoverable and of no use to us, so those were detached and towed here. However, with some effort, I'm quite certain they could be restored."

Adrian gazed unbelievingly at the holoplates of his beloved Maw Installation, and indeed he would not believe until an appropriate investigation could be made. Adrian turned to one of the guards. "Is Grand Admiral Daala in her suite, or has she gone to Eriadu?"

The guard answered promptly. "She is in the gymnasium, Your Excellency."

"Go tell her to get off that blasted treadmill and report here at once!" 

Within five minutes, Grand Admiral Daala jogged into the reception hall in her exercise clothes, the earbuds to her portable music datacard player around her neck, and her moist hair held back by a sweatband. She stopped abruptly when she saw Ackbar, and, as if a switch had gone off inside her, she snapped into her most military demeanor, sans uniform.

"Look at these," Adrian told her, extending the holoplates of the lab. Daala drew in her breath with a sharp gasp, her free hand going to cover her mouth. Then her jaw set. "Wait," she said to the Emperor. "Whatever that alien Rebel scum over there wants, don't take these at face value. Liegeus used to fake these things all the time."

"Precisely why I would like for you to lead an investigation," the Emperor told her.

A new--no, an old--light appeared in Daala's eyes. "At once, Your Excellency. Should I ask Val--" She glanced over at Ackbar, then rephrased. "Shall I ask Grand Admiral Valdemar Tarkin to assist?"

"Absolutely. Now be off with you. We'll detain this Mon Cal until I have your report."

"With all due respect, Your Excellency," Ackbar interceded, "we haven't the time for an investigatory expedition to the Maw. I assure you that your laboratory still exists, with many of its facilities and fixtures intact. On this matter, I beg that you take my word--"

Daala cut in, throwing back her head. "Ha! The word of a murderous traitor! If Raolf Motti hadn't acted against orders and on instinct . . . " she said as much to remind the Emperor as to admonish Ackbar.

Now Ackbar would play his other gamepiece, the one he had not discussed with his colleagues back on Yavin IV. "Your Excellencies," Ackbar continued, now addressing both the Emperor and Empress, "I am also prepared to re-enter your service now, as restitution for my treasonous actions at Eriadu, and in turn for your assistance in protecting my family and my homeworld. You have an extremely valuable resource at your fingertips, one that may save the entire galaxy. My freedom is a negligible price to pay, and I gladly offer it to you."

"Ackbar, as I told you regarding the first Death Star, such battle stations can be in only one place at a time," Adrian reminded him.

"Of course, Sienar's battle station is a crucial asset in any struggle against the Vong, but that is not what I meant."

"Well, what then? It's getting late, Ackbar. Out with it!"

"We commandeered a warehouse of ordinates at Tsoss Beacon," Ackbar explained. "Megonite ordinates, from your wife's corporation, a half-century old, but still viable. Chandrila lives because we found them to be particularly effective against the Vong."

"So that's why!" the Empress exclaimed.

"What?" her husband asked, turning to her.

"They got too close to Phelarion! They came around the back way to Eriadu, and they got too close! Recall that megonite is _organic_, Adrian. Even after processing and stabilization with a moderator, its organic properties remain volatile, even in vitrification. Now, why it would disrupt the Vong, that could be many things, the odor perhaps, but that's all but imperceptible even in the upper atmosphere, let alone in the space lanes. More likely it's the vibrofrequency."

"The moss vibrates?" Ackbar asked. 

"Yes," Typhani explained. "It's a very specific frequency, unique to Phelarian megonite. In small amounts, the vibration is negligible, almost imperceptible even to the most sensitive of instruments, but in large amounts it can be perceived and measured by sensors, and it is magnified many fold during detonation."

"A megonite vibroweapon, then. That's what we need!" the Emperor noted emphatically.

"Perhaps, but only if it is indeed the vibrofrequency that is causing the desired effect," his wife tempered him. "There are other properties as well."

"We'll have to find out for sure. But we don't hold any Vong vessels or prisoners. I'm afraid we'll have to get with the NR for that."

"We shall need to arrange a conference then, a research summit. We have some very good scientists," Ackbar pointed out.

Adrian looked very thoughtful then at that comment, and looked away slightly. "How is Qwi?" he finally asked quietly.

"She's quite well, Your Excellency."

"Good. That's good," he added softly, almost as if her were relieved.

"A research summit in the near future would indeed be wise, perhaps at your laboratory to be safe from Vong assault, but at the moment a more pressing matter . . . My people . . . " Ackbar met the Emperor's gaze again then. "We need your help at present. At once, if you would."

"What do you require, Ackbar?" Adrian asked, now acknowledging what it felt like to have his homeworld threatened in a manner similar to that which he threatened Ackbar's.

"I need the Sienar Death Star, Your Excellency, with a full complement of fighter bombers, and megonite ordinates. Your superior command capabilities would be especially useful." Ackbar knew, however, that with the New Alderaan movement afoot, as well as numerous Omwati, Calamarian, Atravian, and Ghormani factions about, that under no circumstances would Tarkin ever be able to enter New Republic territory.

"Grand Admiral Daala," the Emperor addressed, "A word with you." They stepped out into the hallway as Typhani moved back to the guards, who surrounded her protectively. She neither looked at nor spoke to Ackbar, nor he to her.

"I don't trust him, Adrian. Besides, why should we help them?" Daala protested when they were alone in the corridor.

"Perhaps to save us all. And, about that little relapse I had on the station the other day, I think this might help to assuage the Alderaan situation, and thus keep snipers and assassins of our backs. Additionally, we shall then have the Rebels at our debt."

"Yes, that's a point," Daala agreed, nodding. 

"I want you to take the _Gorgon_, pick up Valdemar, and proceed immediately to the Maw. Get in, get back out, and let me know what's there. By the time you reach the Maw, the station should reach Mon Calamari."

"And what if he's lying?"

That old savage gleam came into Adrian's eyes. "Then we shall have to take _most drastic action_, won't we? It will be like old times. Come." They stepped back inside the reception hall.

Adrian faced down his former assistant, once again holding absolute power over him. It felt good, comfortable again. He spoke sternly, as a master to a slave. "Very well, Ackbar. Grand Admiral Daala will proceed to the Maw in tandem as you and the Commander of the Imperial Fleet proceed to Mon Calamari with the Sienar Death Star. Now be warned, Ackbar, if you are lying to me, Grand Admiral Flennic will not drive the Vong from your homeworld. Instead, he will be instructed to use the station's prime weapon to destroy it once and for all, and your New Republic will not receive a single gram of megonite or any research collaboration. And don't even think of attacking this station as your kind did twice before. It is complete, and there is no exposed superstructure, no exposed ports, or anything else of the kind. Is that understood?" Adrian kept to himself that the station could cloak if attacked.

"Your laboratory still exists, Your Excellency. On that you have my most solemn word."

"It had better, Ackbar. It had better. Guards!" Adrian snapped. "Please alert Grand Admiral Flennic that I require his presence at once!"

When he arrived, Flennic stood at attention before his Emperor, awaiting his orders. The Emperor spoke decisively, glancing briefly over at his former servant. "Take the station and drive the Vong away from Calamari. Make sure all of the TIE fighters and Preybirds are armed with _megonite _ordinates; we just uploaded a large shipment to the station. Use the station's prime weapon to destroy the Vong worldship. Take Ackbar with you. He knows the territory, and he's an excellent tactician. However," he paused deliberately, glaring at Ackbar, then continued to speak to Flennic, "be sure to maintain comms alert for any additional orders I may need to transmit."

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	18. In Search of a Common Defense

**Chapter 18:**

**In Search of a Common Defense**

"I should have never suggested this, let alone agreed to it," the Emperor muttered about the upcoming research summit with scientific and political representatives of the New Republic. Typhani stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders. 

"We each have a piece of the puzzle," she reminded him. "This isn't about galactic dominance, you know. You still don't remember anything?" she asked. She had been trying to help him fully recover his memories of the destruction of Alderaan, fearing the disruption to the conference should the memories come flooding back in its midst.

"No," he said, reaching up to take her hand. "And so perhaps this means that I never will."

"But we both know the subject will come up. It has to. It needs to."

"Yes."

"Then perhaps we should put it on the agenda. Set aside a specific time for you and _Her Highness_ to discuss the matter," Typhani suggested, sneering the words "Her Highness" through her nose.

He turned sharply toward her. "What's to discuss, Typhani? The Empire did what it had to do."

"Yes, the Empire, perhaps. But I still remember your call just before, alerting us to security lockdown. You weren't quite as eager or resolute on the matter as you seem now."

"It--it was the potential backlash I was most concerned about--from without as well as from within. Besides, what's to discuss if I can't even recall the event?"

Typhani looked knowingly at him. "Well, then, for Leia to _discuss _and for you to listen. That could diffuse a lot of tension, you know, not that you have to take anything she has to say to heed."

"Certainly not!" 

"So let her have her say, then. If she feels she's been heard, then maybe the issue can be set aside for the duration of the emergency."

"Very well, then," he conceded. "I want the issue of these Yuuzhan Vong resolved as quickly as possible so I can deal effectively with this so-called New Republic! Blast it! I wish Vader were here!"

-- -- -- -- --

As their shuttle put down at Maw Installation, Leia Organa-Solo dreaded coming face to face once again with Wilhuff Tarkin, but she knew it had to be done. She would have to try to bury her anger over one lost world to save many more. "I just don't know if I can do this," she mumbled.

"Hey, it's too late to cop out now," her husband reminded her.

"Han, we can't let our guard down for a single second, not any of us. I still can't believe they had the gall to schedule an evening for just the four of us. I tell you, the thought of sitting down with those two in the same room, breathing the same air . . . I think I might just have to become ill."

"Aw, c'mon, Lady Tarkin isn't that bad. Calus always said good things about her, except for the year after Yavin. From what I've heard, she's still a damn fine businesswoman."

Leia cocked a snide eyebrow at him. "She is a war criminal, Han, not on the same caliber with her husband, but a war criminal all the same. She abused her workforce after Yavin, and she continued to wreak wanton destruction by supplying the Empire with megonite. And who knows what else she may have done. She spent an awful lot of time with Palpatine, both before and after Yavin. If she were to stand trial, she would be convicted."

"You had the opportunity. Why didn't you cut her throat?"

"Oh, I wanted to. Believe me, I did! Not cut her throat exactly, but maybe ram a toilet brush down it! But all the other servants were so damned loyal to her, and protective. Her attitude made me sick. In her twisted mind, she was saving me from the megonite caves because, as she put it, she didn't think I'd last a week!" 

"I guess you showed her, huh?"

"Oh, I wanted to do it, all right. To tell her who I really was and then hurt her to her last breath! It would've called too much attention to the place, though. You'd have never been able to come in and get us out."

"From what I've heard, Vader gave her a pretty good hurting after we left."

Leia snorted in disgust as the shuttle put down and the ramp lowered. She'd heard that rumor before as well, but never stopped to consider what it might have meant.

"Well, there they are," Han noted, releasing his safety harness. "You know, I have my own history with them."

As protocol dictated, the two first couples of the respective nations, the New Republic and New Impyria, met in the hangar bay, their best diplomatic faces only thinly disguising their mutual contempt for one another.

"_Well, well! She's all grown up!_" Adrian thought as he gazed condescendingly at Leia. Then he took the diplomatic initiative and spoke to her directly. "Welcome to New Impyria, and to the Maw Installation, President Organa-Solo, General Solo."

"Thank you," Leia said diplomatically.

"We must express our sincerest condolences for the loss of your son. If all goes well, perhaps we can drive this pestilence from our presence and stop such horrors from happening in the future. I read that Anakin was a very fine young man. May he not have died in vain."

Leia's stomach almost turned at the atrociously fake comments, as she interpreted them. She wanted to slap him and scream out that everyone on Alderaan had died in vain, so why not her son Anakin? She bit her tongue hard, mustering only a nod. 

"I have a little something for you," the Empress said, and Leia reluctantly looked over at her. Her contempt only rose at seeing the Imperial matriarch again in person, her tall Phelarian stature, the large, strong hands, the double-pierced ears, and the endless tresses of jet-and-gray hair that she'd been forced to comb and braid when all she wanted to do was pull it all out by the roots. But then she reminded herself of the purpose of their visit, and hesitantly took the small box. "I have every reason to believe it belonged to your mother," Typhani continued, stepping a bit closer to Leia.

Leia opened the hinged box to reveal an amateurishly carved piece of what she recognized to be jabbar snippet on a gold rope chain. She shuddered visibly as she remembered the story Bail Organa had told her about the carving. "Where--where did you get this?" Leia asked, barely above a whisper. Her throat had gone suddenly dry.

Typhani moved closer still. "Your father gave it to me."

Leia clasped the box shut, overcome by the symbolism of the act, of her father's utter forsaking of her mother by making the gift to this--this "dark vixen," as she'd oft heard Lady Tarkin called. Leia wondered what else might be implicated by the gift, and whether Vader would have been capable of such after his fateful duel with Kenobi. And yet she had nothing that had belonged to her mother. What few possessions Padmé had left behind for Leia had been destroyed with Alderaan. Not off the shuttle five minutes, and already reminders of Alderaan. Was this a sincere gift from the Empress, or were the Tarkins already trying to taunt and torture her?

By that point, Qwi and Ghent had also disembarked the shuttle. Qwi faced Tarkin readily, and he returned the glare. But then the resentment seemed to run away from both of their faces, and Qwi averted her large Omwati indigo eyes as the Emperor spoke to her. "Welcome back, Qwi. I understand you've become the finest scientist in the New Republic, if not the galaxy. Congratulations, little one. I always knew you would be."

Qwi nodded, and smiled softly, unsettling the Solos.

"Well, let us proceed to the conference room, shall we? The rest of the group is assembled there, waiting for us."

Leia's sense of illness and unease only intensified as she walked into the room and surveyed the visages assembled around the distinctly Imperial round, black conference table with its holoprojector in the center. Bevel Lemelisk smiled smugly at Leia, and Ohran Keldor, who sat next to him, rubbed the back of his head indicatively where Leia had smacked him with a board on Belsavis. Adjacent to him sat the man who had saved Keldor from the resulting fall, Kormath Lemelisk. Lyscithea showed as much hardness in her face as her father as she elaborately folded her arms across her chest. Nasdra Magrody glanced over at her, and then nudged the Empress Apparent on the arm to indicate to her that the "guests" had arrived. Lyjéa raised her head somewhat arrogantly. Reactor engineer Sabine Northstar wrinkled her nose under her large glasses, her face framed by auburn curls. At the far end of the table sat five individuals in stark white uniforms, Grand Admirals Pellaeon, Tarkin, Flennic, Piett, and, finally, Daala, whose taunting facial expression seemed to say, "I'm still here!" To make matters worse for Leia, Qwi seemingly lost her composure altogether, crossing the room to Daala. The two women smiled warmly at each other.

"I should have never, ever given you my authorization code," Daala whispered to Qwi. 

"And with all the horror that has transpired, I should have never, ever used it," Qwi whispered back, taking the empty seat next to her former commanding officer.

"Second time around, ladies, second time around," the Emperor quipped at them.

Leia shot an uneasy glance at Han, who shrugged his shoulders. He assumed his seat along with Ghent and two other New Republic scientists well-versed in Vong physiology, Jil Bramm and Efnero Almuzin. The Emperor assumed his place at the center of the head of the table, his gold insignia catching the light as he sat down. The red-robed Royal Guards flanked the conference room door. The Empress took her place to her husband's left, and all eyes then fell to the empty seat to his right. Leia drew a deep breath and finally sat down, clearing her throat slightly as she did so. Han shot her a reassuring glance. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, it seems a mutual threat has brought us together once again. I understand that during my . . . _absence_, you experienced a similar and successful collaboration with Grand Admiral Pellaeon; hence, I have requested his presence at these proceedings. My wife's homeworld offers us a potential weapon with which to defend ourselves and deflect this invasion, if we can determine an effective way to use it against the Yuuzhan Vong. To this end, she has already devoted a great deal of thought and research."

At her cue, Lady Tarkin rose and activated the holoprojector in the center of the conference table to reveal a chart she had prepared. "The properties of the megonite fall into three basic categories, physical, chemical, and, of course, thermal, combining both physical and chemical properties." For the next hour and a half, the knowledgeable Empress and her daughter Lyscithea enlightened the group on every nuance of the parameters of megonite, showing vids of a number of demonstrations. She had opted not to have live megonite in the room in light of the volatile nature of the group assembled. All of the scientists tapped busily on their datapads as Typhani spoke. The New Republic group asked a number of questions both during and after her presentation, and inquired as to when they could examine live samples of the moss.

Bevel Lemelisk took the floor when her presentation concluded. "To expedite identifying the property or properties most effective against Vong physiology and their biotechnology, I suggest that we gearheads break into committees to investigate the most likely solutions--those being magnetism, conduction, olfactory effect, and vibrofrequency--and then proceed by process of elimination. We've prepared four laboratories for this purpose. Are we all agreed?" With no objections aired, Lemelisk then activated the holoprojector to reveal the roster he proposed, based on everyone's expertise, assigning one New Republic scientist to each committee. 

With no objections voiced, the Emperor acknowledged the roster as official. "Be on to your designated laboratories then." 

Leia found herself unable to get out of the chair she had so hesitantly taken. Soon she realized herself alone with the Emperor, save the guards, as the others moved on to the labs. Adrian started to get up and go to his own scooter in the corner of the room, but then noticed that the President hadn't moved.

"Is there something you'd like to discuss, Your Excellency?" he asked with his usual clipped tone and prim diplomatic decorum. Then he lowered his demeanor a bit. "Go on, speak you mind, Princess Leia. I don't like this situation any more than you do."

She jerked her head in his direction. She simply couldn't hold it back anymore, especially in light of what had just been revealed. "You should be dead for war crimes for what you did to Alderaan," she spat, "but unfortunately we're fortunate you're not!"

"I don't remember the destruction of Alderaan," he told her, as if that were ample excuse for his worst atrocity. He sat back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap.

"You _choose_ not to remember," she retorted.

"The mind has a way of protecting the soul," he said philosophically.

Leia leaned forward, placing her index finger decisively on the table's surface. "This is your one and only chance to redeem yourself, Tarkin!" she seethed.

He shifted in his chair and smiled that thin, charming smile at her that she hated so much. "I'm amused you see it that way," he taunted. Once again, he had her cornered, and he was enjoying it. Then he glanced down at his chronometer. "Ah, the time. We'll have ample chance to discuss this issue this evening," he clipped.

How badly she wanted to lunge at him, to make him remember, and then strangle him for it! The guards at the door would cut her down, she knew. As badly as she hated to admit it, she needed the man sitting across the conference table from her. She needed his skills and expertise to save those who were her people now. Alderaan was gone, she had to remind herself again. Eliminating Tarkin at this point would not bring it back, and would only lead to the destruction of more worlds at the hands of the Yuuzhan Vong. She wanted to personally drag him to the asteroid field known as The Graveyard, the remains of her homeworld, to make him face what he had done, not that it would phase him in the least. And yet in the same instant she thought about what utter blasphemy it would be for him to visit the place. She still, however, wanted to understand why, how, he could have done such a horrible thing. She wanted to know more about his motivations, and have her suspicions about them clarified. If she could understand that, then perhaps she could at last have some closure. Leia left the Emperor in the conference room and went to the terminal that had been set up for her, downloaded the footage she wanted, and saved it to a datacard. 

-- -- -- -- --

"Are you sure you're up to this?" the Empress asked as she fastened her exquisite gown about her waist. "Are you going to be all right?"

"Typhani, I've told you, I feel nothing for Alderaan. It was an act of war," he informed her.

"That's not how you seemed the last time we talked before Yavin," she reminded him again.

"Well, it's the way I am now. I'm fine. Now we have to fulfill our daughter Scythi's prophecy. The blasted Solos are here for dinner!"

"So they are!" the Empress acknowledged, patting a small, inner pocket sewn into the sash of her gown.

-- -- -- -- --

"Well, are you ill, or what?" Han asked as he donned his best dinner jacket.

"Oh, no, I'm quite all right. And that arrogant bastard owes me some answers!" She held up the datacard. "It'll be very interesting to see what he has to say to this."

"I wouldn't deliberately antagonize him, Leia. He ain't exactly well, and we need his ass right now."

"I'll . . . take that under advisement."

"Hey, like I said on the shuttle, I've had my own run-in with him, if you recall. Sure, I'd like to call him on it. But we got priorities right now."

-- -- -- -- --

Their conversation throughout dinner in the small conference room adjacent to the Emperor's office suite proved idle at best, centering on the Vong, and avoiding anything even remotely controversial. So, of course, this mingling of adversaries quickly became very awkward for all four of them. Leia ate very little, disgruntled with the act of dining with the Tarkins, and fearing poison. Her instincts had always served her well, she recalled.

"I'd like to show you something," Leia said, almost conversationally after the servants took the dishes away. "Is there a large display we could bring this vid up on?"

"Yes, certainly," the Emperor responded, and reached over to touch a key on a control panel behind him. The sleek black doors of a wall cabinet slid aside to reveal a large-plate holovision. "Here, let me have that," he said. Leia handed him the datacard, and he loaded it into the reader, then looked up at the display. "An asteroid field? Your point?"

"That's no ordinary asteroid field, Tarkin. That's what's left of Alderaan."

Typhani stared knowingly at her husband.

He let out a sigh of frustration, then took a moment to carefully contemplate his next actions. "I knew this was bound to come up. Let's go into the other room where we'll be more comfortable, shall we?" He then pulled himself up, using the edge of the conference table for support.

"_You don't deserve to be able to walk at all_," Leia thought. "_If you're going to be alive, then you deserve to be nothing more than a vegetable! They ought to re-encapsulate you--conscious!"_

The Emperor continued the line of conversation as they sat down on the deep leather sofas in his office suite. "Now if we are going to successfully combat our current mutual threat," he began, "we shall have to put the issue of Alderaan aside for now. I already told you, Leia, that I don't remember the incident. No matter how badly you may want me to recall it, the memories just aren't there anymore. The last thing I remember from that time was my morning staff meeting, and then I have just a few scattered images of running for the shuttle as the station exploded. That's all." He leaned toward her a bit, but this time, she did not shrink from him. "I simply don't remember."

"Just because you don't remember, are you denying you did this?" she demanded, pointing to the holovid display through the open conference room door.

"No, of course not."

"Or that you were going to have me killed?"

"I'm actually very glad it didn't come to that, Leia. Typhani and I, we'd known you since you were a little girl, and that would have been very difficult for both of us, albeit necessary. You were a member of the Imperial Senate, yet you had committed high treason against the Emperor. You knew full well the consequences for that."

"Never mind me, then. What about the 2.7 billion people on Alderaan? What about _them_? Look at it, Tarkin!" she demanded, pointing to the screen again. He glanced across the conference table. "What if _that_ was Eriadu?"

He looked over at her dismissively. "It's _not_ Eriadu, Leia."

"No, it's not. It's nothing now. Nothing but death and destruction! Dammit, Tarkin! Don't you feel _anything_?"

He sat back and looked at her for a long moment. "No."

"No?" Han echoed, raising his eyebrows.

Leia's eyes grew wide with disbelief, and she wanted to strangle him again. "How can you not have a reaction to that!" she demanded loudly, her voice starting to screech a bit.

He, on the other hand, chose to retain a calm tone. "I don't know, Leia. I don't know why I don't feel anything, but I do not. It would do neither of us any good for me to pretend that I do." He watched as she visibly fought to control her anger and other emotions. "I simply don't react to these types of circumstances. I don't know why not." 

"Then that makes you very dangerous, doesn't it."

"Perhaps. History would tend to indicate so, wouldn't it?"

The Empress let out a tight little chuckle at that.

Then it was Leia who looked away for a moment, as she recalled the conversation she, Luke, Ackbar, Han, and Qwi had had with Rivoche. "Please forgive me if I'm being a bit too personal, but you got awfully personal with me when you ordered my execution." She hesitated for another moment. She wanted to accuse him directly of being a cold and unfeeling sociopath, but she knew that to make him even more defensive would not yield the answers she sought. So she phrased her next question carefully. "Did anybody ever . . . _do _anything to you to . . . to desensitize you to circumstances such as Ghorman, Calamari, and Alderaan? Did someone harm you in some way, perhaps when you were young?"

Typhani shot him a concerned look. She'd never heard of such.

Adrian had to think about Leia's question for a moment. He'd taken some flack from schoolmates for being small and frail as a child, until those same schoolmates figured out that he was also extremely quick and smart. Other than that, nothing occurred to him. "No, I don't think so. I don't recall anything like that. I acted in the best interest of the Empire, and at the behest of Emperor Palpatine."

"Just tell me one thing, then," she continued. "You owe me that much, at least. _Why_ did you do it? Why Alderaan? It wasn't just to break me, was it?" She had always suspected that more had motivated him than that.

He blinked at her directness. "No, it wasn't. Cos--Palpatine--wanted a centralized demonstration of the station's power--of the Empire's power--to deter other worlds from becoming traitorous in the future. If it makes you feel any better, Alderaan was actually not the first choice."

Leia looked stunned. "It wasn't?"

"No. Palpatine had narrowed the choice down to two planets, then left the final decision up to me. The other choice was Chandrila. Now considering the contentious relationship between Palpatine and Mon Mothma, Chandrila was naturally my initial choice, as I always sought to please my predecessor. But, when you were brought on board the station, uncooperative, I changed my mind to try to accomplish two things at once, you see.

"And I'll tell you something else. In a way, I really hated to squander Alderaan's resources in its destruction. Obviously, it would have been much more beneficial to the Empire to have restored your home planet to Imperial control. What I initially proposed to Palpatine was to detonate some large asteroids or another dead and polluted world such as Despayre, with the threat that the power _could_ be unleashed on a centralized, inhabited world if necessary. He missed my point, you see, of control by the _threat _of force rather than the actual _use _of it."

"And so any objection you may have had was all about resources, economics," she observed. She looked away for a moment, then directly into his deep blue eyes. "Doesn't _life_ mean anything at all to you? I know it must. I know how important your family is to you."

He seemed to soften a bit around the edges. "Yes," he admitted, reaching over to take his wife's hand. "But there's a very large difference between one's own and landing pads and planets and such teeming with traitors."

"Full of strangers, you mean."

"Yes, perhaps so."

"Ackbar is right."

"What?"

"Ackbar said you never laid a hand on him in the nine years he was with you. You scolded and taunted him, he said, but you never harmed him physically. Tell me something, Tarkin. Have you ever killed or tortured anyone in combat, or face to face? Have you ever inflicted the pain and death _directly yourself _with your _own _hand?"

He thought back for a moment. "Well, no, actually I haven't. I was always in a position of command."

"It seems that just about everyone who has come into close contact with you, who has come to know you, has been spared somehow. As long as you don't have to _face _your enemy, as long as you can stand on the bridge and give the orders and attack from afar, or get others to do your dirty work for you while you watch and wait from a safe distance, there's nothing to stop your sadistic savagery, is there? Wilhuff Tarkin, you are undoubtedly the biggest coward in the entire galaxy!"

"That's quite uncalled for," the Empress protested.

"It's all right, Typhani. Let her have her say."

Leia rose and marched back into the conference room, taking the holo remote off the table. She clicked it once, and then used it to point at the projection. "There!" she continued. "The man I knew all of my life as my father, who raised and nurtured me, Bail Prestor Organa. You knew him. He was your colleague!"

"He was my enemy--arch-enemy, if you will," the new Emperor clarified, folding his arms across his chest.

"Okay. I'll grant you that." She clicked the remote. "Here. Do you know this woman?"

"Why, no, I don't believe I recognize her."

"This was my Aunt Celly. Was _she _your enemy?"

"No, obviously not."

"How about this one?" She advanced to the next hologram.

"Well, I may have seen her at an official event, but no, I don't know her."

"My Aunt Rouge. And these? Any enemies here?" She advanced again, revealing a group picture of about eleven children.

"Why, no, of course not."

"That is me," Leia indicated, pointing to her image. "And these were all my cousins. All but two of them were younger than me. Look at the boys, at this one. He sort of reminds me of your grandson Taeodor. He was my cousin Marc. But I am the only one alive now, thanks to you. Look at their faces and tell me you still don't feel anything! Look at them!" she shouted. She leaned over him, and this time he shrank from her. "Every single one of those 2.7 billion people who died on Alderaan had a face, Tarkin! A face, a mind, a soul, dreams and ambitions, just like you, just like Lady Typhani here, just like Taeodor! They weren't all members of the Rebel Alliance! Marc wasn't a member of anything! He was only eleven years old when you stole his life and his future from him!" 

He stared into the holovision. "I always . . . I always distanced myself. They taught us to do that, you know, at the Academy. I was . . . very good at it."

"Okay. Distance yourself from _this_." She touched the remote again.

The next image was of Leia's little cousin Nerah, about seven at the time, Moff and Lady Tarkin, and their two daughters. Nerah had met and made friends with Lyscithea during a Senate retreat held on Alderaan about six years before the Battle of Yavin. Nerah had loved dolls, loved to brush and style their long hair, and so she naturally gravitated to Typhani as well. Leia continued. "Remember the banquet? Remember when Nerah came up behind your wife and pulled the clip out of her hair, and it nearly reached the floor when it fell? Remember how Aunt Rouge was absolutely beside herself, but you and Lady Tarkin just thought it was cute? Remember Nerah with your wife's brush throughout the rest of the banquet, how she sat there and brushed Typhani's hair endlessly, never moved, and never made another peep the rest of the night?" He thought back to that retreat, and Leia thought for a second that she detected a trace of a smile on his face. 

Leia continued. "Nerah was thirteen years old on the very day that you killed her. It's interesting what she'd done. She had dark hair too, if you remember, and by the time she was thirteen, it reached her waist--just like her idol, one Lady Tarkin! Now you just _think_ about that! Go on! Distance yourself!" Then she looked decisively at Lady Tarkin. "Both of you!" she shouted.

"Oh . . . " Typhani squeaked, her hand going to her mouth as she turned her head away from the holovision.. 

"Turn that off immediately! How dare you antagonize her!" the Emperor demanded brusquely.

Leia threw back her head and laughed hard at him, then tossed the remote onto the divan next to him. "Turn it off yourself, Tarkin! Go ahead. Turn Nerah and all the others off, all 2.7 billion of them! By all means, be _my _guest this time! You may fire when ready!" 

He stared up at her, those words reverberating in his head. "_You may fire when ready_." But they were _his_ words, and now they were coming back to haunt him. He slumped forward, and his hands went to his temples.

"Adrian . . . " Typhani said, concerned, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Does that _remind_ you of anything?" Leia asked him condescendingly.

He didn't answer her, but his obvious reaction served as answer enough. Yes, it reminded him. The moments just prior to Alderaan's destruction came rushing back to him, as well as the memory of what he had realized at the time.

"Good!" Leia snapped at him. "You know, despite everyone's best efforts to stop them, the New Alderaan terrorists may yet kill you--or your _wife_ here. They know she's your weak spot. Would you feel anything _then_? Or how about if they took out your _grandsons_!"

He winced. "Don't!"

"Yeah, I thought so. It's about time somebody made that connection for you. I swear, Tarkin, as intelligent as you are . . . "

"Hey, Leia, I think that's far enough," Han interceded. Then he noticed the fiery rage in Lady Tarkin's eyes, and that she had withdrawn a small perfume bottle from a tuck in her gown.

"She's crossed the line, Adrian," the Empress said in a low voice.

"What?" he asked.

Typhani raised the bottle and pointed the sprayer at Leia, pumping it several times. "She bears half of her mother's DNA! I kept it, you see!"

"Hey!" Han yelped, lurching forward and grasping the Empress' wrist.

"Oh, Typhani, no!" the Emperor protested as Solo pried the bottle from his wife's hand.

Leia coughed violently as the acrid vapors of an old cologne she did not recognize filled and burned her nostrils, throat, and lungs. She did not recognize the fragrance, but she immediately recognized the method--and another horrible tale related to her by Bail Organa . . . Her mouth curled into a savage snarl. 

"IT WAS YOU!!!!!" Leia screamed, throwing herself on top of the Empress, seizing her about the throat with one hand and grasping a fistful of her hair with the other.

"Stop it, Leia!" Han protested.

"Oh, no!" Adrian uttered, and moved to summon the guards.

Typhani heaved herself up, her size and weight throwing Leia backwards. Leia released the Empress' throat, but her fingers became entangled in her headdress, pulling Typhani down on top of her. Both well trained in self-defense, the two women grappled on the floor as Han attempted to pull his wife from the fray. Tarkin, seeing that Typhani easily had the advantage, stepped back from the foyer entrance for a moment, allowing her to pummel the Rebel princess repeatedly before finally calling for the guards, who took their own time about pulling the powerful Empress off.

Both women flew into their husbands' arms, breathing hard, both scratched, bruised, and bloodied, each brandishing handfuls of the other's hair. The guards then promptly placed Leia under arrest for assaulting the Empress.

"But _she_ started it!" Han protested childishly, pointing at Lady Tarkin.

Leia fought to catch her breath as she shouted to her husband. "It's poison, Han! The cologne in the bottle! She poisoned my mother! _She _was the first Emperor's Hand!"

"You . . . " Han snarled. Before the guard could intercept him, he was on Typhani, with Adrian trying to no avail to pull her back. Han punched the Empress hard in the gut three or four times before a stun bolt hit him. He was close enough to Typhani for it to affect her as well, and she slumped forward in Adrian's embrace, crying out in pain and fright. Then she went limp.

"Typhani!" Adrian called out, trying to hold her up, not realizing that she'd been stunned. He pulled her back to the nearest sofa and she fell back in his arms. Mindful of her recent injuries from Pedducis Chorios, he clutched her to him, then looked up at the guards. "Don't just stand there, you fools! Get the medics! And lock those Rebels up!" No sooner had he barked those orders than a squadron of white-clad stormtroopers entered the chambers for support.

Typhani moaned slightly as the stun bolt began to wear off, her hand going to her stomach. "Don't move, Typhani. You'll be all right, just don't try to move," Adrian comforted her. As the stormtroopers arrived to drag the Solos away, amid their protests, Adrian eased Typhani back onto the slip the medic droids had brought. He then pulled himself stiffly from the sofa to follow her out, as she was calling for him. 

"Hey Tarkin!" Han Solo shouted from the corridor. Adrian looked out at him as everyone else froze for the moment. "We don't need the Vong to destroy us after all! We're doing just fine all by ourselves!"

"Take them away!" Adrian demanded.

But then the image on the holoprojector caught his eye again, and he grabbed his head with both hands. He could see it now--Alderaan--turning to cosmic dust before his eyes, in response to his command, with Nerah's young face permeating the scene, her accusing Alderaani eyes burrowing into his soul. His reaction was about to be bad, he knew, and he had no one to help him through it. He suddenly felt very ill, grasping his chest as his knees buckled beneath him . . . 

Typhani had turned her head toward him and saw him go down. "Adrian!" she screamed, throwing herself from the stretcher and scrambling toward him. "No, Adrian! NO!!"

-- -- -- -- --

The Imperial security detail threw the Solos into a holding cell and sealed them inside. group. "Are you okay?" Han asked his wife.

"Yeah, yeah, I think so. This was a trap, Han. What happened back there? Could you see?"

"Yeah, uh, I think Tarkin collapsed."

"Sithspit!"

Han turned on her then. In his mind, she had just ruined any chance of making Chewbacca and Anakin's deaths meaningful. If the Vong win, then Chewie and Anakin died in vain. That had been his mantra since Sernpidal. "You shouldn't have provoked them, Leia! I warned you! Now what the hell are we gonna do?"

"Do? What are you talking about, Han?"

"Did you come here to settle a personal score, or to save the galaxy?"

"Both, actually," she admitted. "They aren't going to back out. They need us as much as we need them."

"Yeah, that's right, we _do_ need them, just like before when we came here to get Pellaeon's help. Thanks to you, that may be all we can get from them again, and you see how long the effect from that lasted, if they even let us outta here! It didn't stop the Vong. It just delayed them for awhile. Dammit, Leia, I _know_ how much you still hurt for Alderaan, but how could you put your personal vendetta above the good of the rest of the galaxy? Figuring out how to use the megonite against the Vong was our _best shot_, and now you've likely blown it! You just couldn't wait, could you? Nice work, Leia! I don't see _you_ coming up with the technical solution to our problem! Dammit, Leia! Why didn't you just _wait_! Then you could have blown him away if you thought you could get away with it! Now what the hell are we going to do, huh? If Tarkin croaks . . . "

Disgusted with herself, with her hasty judgment based on emotion instead of logic, she knew the onus was on her. "Look, we still have Daala, the Lemelisks and Lady Tarkin to help our team. After all, she knows more about the megonite than anyone else. You didn't hit her that hard. I saw you."

"Yeah, but I did hit her, thanks to you! How cooperative do you think they're going to be now, Leia! After all, they've got a Death Star! They've got a way to defend their territory! To hell with us!"

"Look, Ghent and Qwi will--" 

He cut her off. "It was Ghent and Qwi who said they couldn't come up with anything by themselves," he reminded her. He turned acid. "I don't see Alderaan back on the star charts, Leia. You may well just have brought about who knows how many more Alderaans with your theatrics this evening. Why'd you have to get so damned _personal_ with them? I just don't get it! On the way here, you said it yourself! 'The Vong make Tarkin look like an Ewok!' But once you saw him in person, that was it, wasn't it? 'Just couldn't control yourself! You're going to have a fine time explaining your actions to the Senate, if we ever see the Senate again."

"In case you've already forgotten, I may very well _not_ see them again!"

Han had shoved the cologne bottle into his pocket. He drew it out, and they both gazed down at it. "She used this stuff on your mother? What, forty-five, forty-seven years ago?"

"It's the same type of agent Furgan used on Mon Mothma," she said dejectedly, looking away.

"Aw, gods, Leia!" At that, he drew her close.

-- -- -- -- --

In the Installation's medcenter, the Emperor and Empress doted over each other, tending each other's needs. "Here, Adrian, catch your breath now. You're all right. You're all right now," Typhani encouraged him. 

He reached up to cup his hands over her solar plexus. "Did he hurt you badly?"

"No," she reassured him, "but I'll likely be stiff and sore tomorrow."

He drew a few more breaths from the mask she'd placed over his face, then pushed it away as he looked up at her. "What have I done, Typhani! Alderaan . . . how could I .. . . "

She held his head to her shoulder. "You survived, Adrian. You did whatever was necessary to keep us safe, and our families, and to keep our homeworlds out of harm's way. You did what any man would do to protect that most dear to him. You know full well what would have happened had you challenged Cos any further on the matter. You had no choice. You know that."

He pushed back from her, still trying to catch his breath. "No!" he insisted. "No, Typhani, I had a choice, but as Leia just said, I was too much of a coward to use it! I could have easily locked Yularen in his quarters and deactivated his comms. I had the disruptor that Raith and I built in my briefbag. If it had worked as we had intended, it would have completely short-circuited Vader's life support system in less time than it would have taken him to attack me. And then I could have turned the station on Palpatine then and there! But no! I still thought I could avoid all of the risks inherent in that plan, sparing Cos, sparing myself from possible strangulation, sparing Imperial City, and sparing Vader to use in my own way. And with Leia in hand, I thought I had a perfect window of opportunity to end the Rebellion as well! I still thought Cos would abdicate to me, as ill as he was, if I made him think I would carry on as he had, and proved to him that I could quell any threats to his Empire . . . if I did what he wanted. So it was out of my own self-interest and ambition that I--"

"That's enough," Typhani interceded, clasping the oxygen back over his face. "I know what we have to do. I lost my temper. I brought the bottle for protection, but when she suggested hurting the boys, I . . . " She shook her head. She leaned very close to him then. "I doubt the spores are still viable anyway. Please, Adrian, let me settle this! Once she learns of the abdication--"

He shrugged the mask aside and grabbed her by the arm. "No, Typhani! Don't be ridiculous! She knows what you did to Amidala!"

"She can't take me, Adrian. Besides, I'll have the guards bind her. Once she sees the entire picture, when she finally realizes and understands what she's done, then . . . then she may even completely give over to us of her own volition."

"I doubt that," he said, pushing the mask away for a moment. "But tell her anyway. Tell her everything. If I see her again, I'll kill her!"

"Not yet, my love, not just yet!"

-- -- -- -- --

Han and Leia Solo leapt to their feet as the door to their holding cell slid open and six red-robed Imperial Royal Guards rushed in. Two of the guards grabbed Han as a third frisked him for the Empress' cologne bottle. Two more guards seized Leia as a third bound her hands in front of her. Leia made no protest as the guards led her out of the cell, down the corridor, and through one of the transparisteel chutes that connected the pods of the Maw Installation. 

On the other side, they marched her into a small conference room, where the Empress sat at the head of the table. Another guard approached her and set the recovered bottle in front of her. "Have the contents analyzed for their viability, and inform me of the results at once," she ordered.

"Yes, Your Excellency!" the guard snapped dutifully. All but two of the six guards left the room, and the remaining two flanked the inside of the door. 

"It's all right," Typhani assured them. "You may post outside." The guards nodded to her as the noted the outline of her small blaster pistol under her outer robe. 

Leia, not one bit mindful of Han's admonitions, took the initiative, not even waiting to learn the purpose of this midnight audience with the Empress. 

"Why!" she spat. "What had my mother ever done to you!"

"She was disruptive in the Senate, and she caused insurrection which undermined the Emperor's goals. You're quite right; I _was _the first Emperor's Hand, in fact well before he became Emperor. I helped train Mara, and she officially tool over from me when she came of age and passed her trials. That's when I became Chair of the Mining Guild, and could no longer serve as Hand. I proved far more useful to the Empire in the Guild position, as I'm sure you well know. That aside, you're very much like your mother, you know. You have the same eyes and hair, the same face. She was very beautiful in her day. 'The Flower of Naboo,' they called her."

"As I should! As you so cogently pointed out, I bear half of her DNA!" At that point, though, Leia's curiosity tempered her rage somewhat. "Did . . . did you know her well?"

Typhani's guarded demeanor also softened a bit at that. "Not well, no. Shayla did, however. Perhaps we can arrange for her to come out so you two can talk."

"Shayla Paige-Tarkin--she's still alive?"

"Oh, yes, very much so. She's Grand Admiral Valdemar Tarkin's mother, and still as sharp as ever, I assure you."

Leia's jaw set again. "But by the time you made your attempt on my mother's life, she was no longer a threat to Palpatine or the Empire he'd spawned. So why attack her?"

"Because the Emperor willed it. I wasn't the first to try, you know. Zam Wessel and Jango Fett also tried. She was quite strong, and well liked enough to be very well protected. I understand that's how your father--your _real_ father--came to be involved with her, protecting her as a Jedi assignment."

"If Zam Wessel and Jango Fett jumped headlong into a rancor pit, would you have followed? I think not!"

Typhani lowered her gaze a bit. "There . . . was no standing up to Palpatine. He'd . . . you don't know what he would have done. Horrible things. Incomprehensible, some of them." She looked away, her face drawing up slightly. 

Leia had to think about that for a moment, the prospect that even the favored and mighty Tarkins had incurred Palpatine's twisted and sadistic wrath--and then passed it along in kind, she reminded herself. "And poisoning someone isn't a 'horrible thing,' Lady Tarkin?" At that point, though, she sensed that the Empress was remembering something rather unpleasant. "What?" Leia demanded. "What would he have done? You were his Hand! If you were that valuable to him--"

Typhani looked up at her then. "Not me." she said, then looked away again. "It wasn't about just me."

"You didn't have any children at the time," Leia pointed out.

Typhani didn't answer, wishing she hadn't gotten into this conversation.

Leia realized then. "He would hurt Wilhuff?"

Typhani winced, though she fought to stop it. "Yes," she admitted softly. "Or . . . more often than not, he would attack us both if one of us failed him or displeased him in some way."

"Well, despite the rumors all those years to the contrary, you two really must actually love each other very deeply, if you'd kill to protect each other--"

"My attempt on your mother was not successful, if you would recall."

"That's only because my father, Bail Organa, figured out what you'd done in time! But you did kill others. We knew of several assassinations and questionable deaths attributed to the First Emperor's Hand. And then it seems that your husband was willing to kill an entire planet's population to protect your hides from whatever reprimand Palpatine may have tossed at you!"

The Empress glared hard at her. "There are things you don't know," she insisted through slightly clenched teeth. "Those 'reprimands' you speak so lightly of, well . . . In any event, my husband never wanted to destroy Alderaan," Typhani revealed, relieved to change the subject to the one she had intended to discuss with the New Republic president..

"No. He wanted to blow up Chandrila instead. He still intended to destroy a planet full of billions of innocent beings to prove the power of his Empire!" she retorted.

"No, dear. You would be shocked if you knew who he really wanted to destroy with that battle station." 

"Would I? All right, tell me." Leia sat back decisively in her chair.

"Palpatine," Typhani said flatly, looking directly into Leia's disbelieving brown eyes.

Leia started to throw back her head and laugh out loud again, but then she thought about it for a moment. "He wanted to take over! He was going to use the Death Star to depose Palpatine"

"Yes," Typhani admitted.

"By the stars, why didn't he try!" Leia cried out. Tarkin had done some horrible deeds in his career, even prior to Alderaan, but he was no Sith. 

"He would have had to get through your father first. There was a plan for that, but it wasn't failsafe. Another way was in the works, though, but you destroyed the station," Typhani revealed.

"What are you talking about, another way?" Leia demanded.

"Palpatine was ill at the time, very ill, in fact. He had indicated rather strongly that he intended to abdicate to us after your Rebellion had been put down. I know you were very young then, and inexperienced. You see, if you had only given up the location of your base as Yavin IV, in light of its more central location, Adrian just might have been able to get that past Palpatine as a substitute for Alderaan or Chandrila. Even if you had spoken up after he told you that Dantooine was too remote, it might have made a difference. I know you probably didn't think about it at the time, but it was a mere _military base_ that was at stake, not an entire planet's population. The loss of life would have been far less than Alderaan, if not minimal. How many ships did you have at the base? How much personnel-carrying capacity did you have?"

"I don't understand," Leia defended.

"I know," Typhani continued. "I doubt you had enough capacity to get _everyone_ off the base, but this was, after all, a military installation at the ready. The personnel there knew they'd willingly put their lives on the line when they joined the Rebel Alliance. You knew how fast the station could travel at post-light and sublight speed, for you had the technical readouts, and that wasn't very fast, if you recall. You would have known well ahead that the station was coming, and could certainly have evacuated most of your personnel in time. You would have lost the moon base at Yavin and all but your ships, yes, but I am quite confident that your disclosure of the location would have saved Alderaan. Ultimately, you had to abandon the base anyway for fear of the Imperial Fleet. And then if only you hadn't destroyed the station and hurt Adrian so badly, Palpatine would have very likely given it all over to him. As he said after dinner, Palpatine missed his point about ruling through deterrence rather than destruction."

"Then why didn't Palpatine abdicate to Vader after the Battle of Yavin?" Leia asked pointedly.

"Because of his connection to the Jedi. Palpatine hated Jedi far worse than he ever hated Rebels. Also, because Palpatine knew of Luke, and that Luke had been in contact with Kenobi, he felt the passage was still open for your father to go from Sith back to Jedi, and he just wouldn't risk it. No, Palpatine would have never abdicated to your father, or to anyone with any connection to the Jedi. Adrian was his protégé, his favorite. He took the destruction of the station out on your father and Bevel Lemelisk, you know. Your father, he was punished for not taking care of Adrian."

"How did you know about Dantooine, that I said it contained a Rebel base, that your husband said it was too remote? He just told me that he doesn't remember the incident," Leia queried pointedly.

"Your father told me about it," Typhani explained.

"This is . . . all very hard to take in at once," Leia admitted. 

"I know," Typhani said reassuringly, moving behind Leia and putting her hands on her shoulders. "Adrian's homecoming has created an awful lot of revelations. But perhaps it is best that everything is revealed. Perhaps we can at last give closure and go on."

"Go on . . . ?" Leia echoed. She stared into her lap, at her bound hands, as she tried to assimilate--then negate--what the Empress had just told her, that it was her own inexperienced error in judgment that cost Alderaan its existence and plunged the galaxy into nearly two decades of chaos and bloodshed. Tarkin had, to his credit, been a diplomat, and a good one for the side he chose. He was no recluse, and he did have excellent leadership and supervisory skills--all things, as Ackbar had said, to which the Rebel leaders could have appealed. Aboard the Death Star, she had been a radical driven by her zeal for the Alliance instead of thinking logically, strategically, as Lady Tarkin had just so simply pointed out to her. "Then it's all my fault!" she whispered, her lips trembling.

"We didn't want to do this to you, but you just wouldn't let the issue rest."

Tarkin's words echoed in her ears again, _"In a way, you have determined the choice of the planet that will be destroyed first . . . You would prefer another target? A military target?"_ A military target. A _military_ target! A target that could have _prepared _for the attack! A target comprised of decidedly Alliance volunteers, not unwary civilians! A military target! A military target! "Oh, no," Leia cried, despite her struggle not to break in front of the Empress, to not let this Tarkin terror know that she'd gotten through, and that she was right. For years, for all the years since Alderaan's loss, Leia had tortured herself by worrying that she might have made a mistake, that there might have been something she could have done to save her homeworld, but that she just didn't realize it at the time. And now the solution glared plainly before her, set out by one older and more experienced. She had begged her father to allow her to take the mission to intercept the Death Star data, and he had granted her request with his utmost confidence, the last act of pride of a father toward his daughter, and she had failed not only him, but their entire planet. It should have been him aboard the _Tantive_. He would have known what to do, the right thing to tell Tarkin. And yet, despite everything he'd been told, the Grand Moff did not have to proceed with Alderaan's destruction. He could have aborted the operation, for whatever reason he chose to give Palpatine. 

The door alert sounded softly. Typhani stepped over to it and slid it open part way, speaking quietly through it to the guard outside. He handed her something small that she tucked into her robe pocket. Then she closed the door and went back to where Leia sat, head down, thin tears starting to stream down her cheeks. "It's all right, little one," the Empress said, stooping down in front of Leia to unbind her hands. "The spores in the cologne are inert. I should have cast that thing into Lake Phelarion years ago because I knew I would lose my temper one day. Thank goodness you never stumbled across it in my dressing room."

That mention caused Leia to recall her own direct experience with Lady Tarkin, and she desperately wanted to change the subject. "Are Manda, Bharina, and Raycellna still with you?" she asked of her former "co-workers."

Typhani smiled softly. "Yes, Raycellna is. Manda is retired, but lives in and maintains my official Guild condo on Muunilinst. Bharina is now with our youngest daughter and her family. I'll have to tell them that 'Lerna' asked about them!"

"What happened after I left?" Leia asked. "I heard that Vader was very angry with you." Typhani went white, and stepped over to the viewport, her back to Leia. She merely watched her for a moment. "Lady Tarkin? What . . . " Then she realized. "He tortured you, didn't he?"

"Yes," Typhani answered quietly, glancing around briefly. 

"Oh, no . . . What--what did he . . . " Leia continued, now sympathetically, recalling her own experiences.

"The usual repertoire. The scan grid and the mind probe. He, uh, he took me aboard the _Executor_, and he . . . " She looked away again, shutting her eyes tightly against the memories.

Leia knew Typhani was strong, but that? She knew that exposure to the Empire's two premier tortures in immediate succession usually resulted in permanent disability--if not death--and that such outrage was often applied as an execution technique. "How did you ever survive that?"

"I . . . had a good friend with me who helped me through it. He stayed right by my side through it all. Vader allowed that, at least. If he hadn't been there, and if it hadn't been for my daughters, well . . . " She finally came back to the conference table and resumed her seat, but her voice dropped to just above a whisper, and Leia thought she could detect a tremor in it. "Still, dreadful as it was, that session was a mere prelude to what happened once I got to Coruscant. Your escape and the situation with the missing megonite that Sparv and Calus stole rendered the Conclave an utter diplomatic debacle. The Emperor was most displeased, as I'm sure you can imagine." Lady Tarkin tucked her hands under her robe to hide the fact that they were trembling. At that instant, a sudden sense of utter dread came over Leia, she could sense it, feel it--the Empress' memories somehow became palpable to her--fear, cold, pain, confusion . . . She thought it best not to ask for specific details this time, but one other question did come to mind. After all, Palpatine killed wantonly, on whim. "Why did he spare you?" 

That probe proved just as deep and personal as would a request for the details. The Empress looked away again. "He had his reasons." she said quietly.

Leia's stomach turned at the thought of all the things that might have meant, and for a fleeting moment, she almost felt a bit sorry for Lady Tarkin. "It was Vader's troops who failed to stop the _Falcon_," she pointed out in the Empress' defense. "But of course he wasn't quick to step forward to take his share of the responsibility, was he?" 

"Vader sought to blame your escape on me because he was afraid that if he failed Palpatine twice in the same way, after allowing you to escape from the Death Star the previous year, that it would be the end of him! I honestly had no idea who you were or where you'd come from--it had been years after all since I'd seen you last--but your father didn't believe me. He actually thought I was sheltering you and shipping all of that missing megonite to the Rebel Alliance. Thank goodness, some of my own workers came forward and told him about Sparv and Calus, else I don't know what he would have done to me. Looking back on it, I don't think he would have risked Palpatine's wrath by summarily executing me. Had I been guilty, the Emperor would have wanted that pleasure for himself. Still, had my foremen not come forward, Vader would very likely have shut down my company. You know, you're very lucky you weren't all blown to dust when you detonated those crates on the other power riser. They must not have been packed properly full. If they had been, that explosion would likely have tossed General Solo's little ship right back into orbit of its own accord, and destroyed it in the process. Megonite is nothing to toy with. If you don't know what you're doing, you shouldn't be near it."

"What do you think it is, that's affecting the Vong?"

"I think it's the vibrofrequency, but Bevel disagrees. He suspects a magnetic disruption of some kind. So, we'll have to run the necessary tests. Can we do that, Leia? Can we at last put the past behind us for the sake of the future?"

Leia looked away. She knew what the Empress meant. "Alderaan . . . " she whispered." He could have stopped! In the name of mercy and sentience, he could have stopped! He had the power to defend himself against Palpatine! He could have brought you and your daughters on board!"

"And then you would have destroyed us all! Don't you see, Leia, there's no easy way through this issue, nor should there be considering its gravity. But our present crisis is far more grave. We must agree to set Alderaan aside for the duration of the present emergency, or we shall all suffer the same fate." Typhani started to get up, then continued. "I don't mean to show you any disrespect, but you have no scientific background. Your presence here is merely diplomatic representation of the New Republic. Now that the meetings are under way, perhaps you'd be more comfortable elsewhere. Perhaps you might want to return to Yavin and reassure your people that the proceedings here are moving ahead."

Leia looked up decisively at the Empress. "I can never set what happened to Alderaan aside, Lady Tarkin, not even for an instant. Your husband did not have to go through with Alderaan's destruction, no matter what I may or may not have told him. However, I must continue to represent the New Republic at these scientific proceedings. I have made my position known. I have spoken for my lost people, and it yet remains my hope that one day the universe will deliver justice. Now, in light of our diplomatic positions, I must insist that my husband and I be returned to our regular quarters."

The Empress rose from her seat. "Very well, then," she said, and summoned the guards. 

-- -- -- -- --

Neither First Couple slept much that night . . . 

"The spores in the poison were inert," Leia told Han once they were let back into their quarters. 

"What a night!" he exclaimed, embracing her tightly. 

"Yeah, well, it seems that for the moment we've smoothed things out . . . as long as I keep my mouth shut, that is."

"Leia, I know it's hard for you," Han offered, "but you've always been--"

"I know, I know, I've always been strong. But now, Han, I don't know--" She broke away.

"What?"

"I always knew! You've told me time and again over the years that I've been beating myself up emotionally for no avail, but I always knew there was something I could have done to save Alderaan! And tonight _she_ told me what it was! Oh, Force, Han! The whole war has been my fault! I could have stopped it if I had just stopped to _think _about what I was doing!"

"Hey, hey, do _not_ let these Imps pin anything like that on you! Whatever they told you--you said yourself what brainwashing manipulators they can be."

She shook her head as if to clear her mind. "I should have sacrificed the Massassi base to save Alderaan! They could have evacuated, almost everyone by the time the Death Star--"

"Hey, yeah, but then what would have happened to the Rebellion, and to the rest of the galaxy? We ended up having to sacrifice the base to kill the Death Star anyway; it's _nor_ your fault!"

Leia looked up into her husband's eyes then. "Palpatine . . . Palpatine was about to abdicate to Tarkin as soon as the Rebellion was put down. I still think Tarkin's a monster, but he wasn't and isn't nearly half as extreme as Palpatine was. It could have ended . . . back then! _I _could have ended it all, Han!"

"Palpatine abdicate? I never heard anything like that. I don't think so. Did Tarkin tell you that?"

"I haven't seen him," Leia clarified. "It was just Lady Tarkin and me."

"Yeah, un-huh, what'd she want this time? A midnight snack? That mane of hers bead-braided?" Han snorted sarcastically.

"She's right, Han," Leia admitted dejectedly.

"Don't, Leia! Don't! Don't provoke her anymore, but don't let her feed you that shovelful of ronto dung, either! Don't give that scum-lovin' kretch that kind of credit! She's always been as iron-tongued as she's been iron-willed and iron-fisted!"

Leia hesitated at the criticism that, a day earlier, she would have agreed with and he would not wholeheartedly. "Not entirely."

"Huh?"

"She told me some things tonight, Han. It surprised me that she did."

"She's got to you, all right. If the poison she sprayed up your nose didn't work, what she just dumped into your head is workin' just fine!"

"It's not what you think. She told me things about her, about what happened after you picked up Sparv, Calus, and me. You were right, what you said on the shuttle on the way in. Vader put her through hell--a full interrogation, if you know what I mean--and it got worse when Palpatine summoned her to Coruscant. He did . . . horrible things to her . . . "

"Like what?"

"She wouldn't say, and I didn't ask specifically, but I could sense it, through the Force, this awful whirlwind of fear, pain, confusion . . ."

"Do you think she might be a clone, like Lemelisk?"

"No, I don't think so."

"But after what she did to your mom and who knows how many others, plus her uh, _activities_ with the Mining Guild and supplying the Empire with megonite all those years, I say what goes around comes around!"

"Yeah, I'd have said that, too, but you didn't feel it."

"So how'd you feel it? She ain't Force-sensitive . . . is she?"

Leia shuddered in her sudden realization, and one hand slowly rose to her mouth. "I think we better get a message to Luke. We'll have to wake the pilots, and send the shuttle out."

-- -- -- -- --

"No, Cos, no! You're hurting me! You're . . . no, oh, no!"

Adrian had never known his wife to awaken screaming and gasping from a dream before, but that's just what she did when he gently tried to rouse her. As she slowly caught her breath, she realized that she could no longer keep the rest of the Conclave's aftermath from her husband. He took her face in both hands. "What did he do to you?" he asked softly but with steely determination.

She stared back at him wide-eyed. "I can't remember exactly! I--I blocked most of it out! And Darth--he didn't think Cos would harm me, but when he saw what had happened--when he found me--he took the memories from me somehow! I never understood! And I certainly never questioned either of them!"

Adrian didn't realize how tightly he was clutching her. "When he _found _you? What . . . where did he find you?" 

"I don't know precisely, but I remember it was cold, very cold. Vader, uh, he had someone with him, a woman. He called her Shira. She was some sort of adept, an apprentice of his, I think. She kept reaching for me, but wherever I was, I couldn't get to her." Typhani put a hand to her forehead as more fragments of the incident came forth. She could hear Shira's voice again, a distant echo, _"We've got to get her out of there . . . she's lost a lot of blood. Lord Vader, go get Ysanne, quickly, and keep Mara out of here! She mustn't see this!" _

And then she could see Ysanne's face in her memory, younger, but distraught, reaching for her, as Shira had, _"Take my hand, Typhani . . . " _

"I think Ysanne may know what happened," she realized. She knew her husband would not stop until he found out. Adrian pressed her head protectively to his shoulder. Palpatine had done some awful things to them, but he couldn't imagine that he would do anything so terrible to Typhani that Vader would find it necessary to block her memories. He knew that was how it worked. Force-users never really "took" anyone's memories; instead, they would block them, inserting an implanted belief that the blocked events never happened. 

"I should have been there to protect you! If it hadn't been for those Rebels--for that spiteful little wench!" 

Typhani looked up at him. "A downward spiral of never-ending pain, that's what we seem to have inflicted upon one another. And it's never going to stop, is it?"

"I don't know, Typhani. I don't know . . . " Both unable to sleep, they decided to go to one of the remaining observation areas to take in the multicolored splendor of the Maw.

-- -- -- -- --

Han and Leia Solo waited by a lift as they returned from sending out a message to Luke Skywalker. When it opened, they faced none other than the Emperor and Empress, flanked by their ever-present Royal Guards. For the first time, Leia actually saw the Emperor on his scooter, clad in slippers and a casual jumpsuit. He seemed almost human then. For a long moment, the foursome stared at each other once again. 

"Oh, no," Leia groaned.

"Hey, haven't we all had enough tonight?" Han offered. 

"Yes!" Leia snapped. "I had enough of these two over a quarter of a century ago!"

"Yeah, well, when we've solved our little problem here, then we can all go our separate ways," Han continued, trying to be the mediator before anything else started.

Tarkin chuckled slightly and looked up at his wife.

"What's that supposed to mean, huh?" Han challenged. 

"_He_ won't ever let us go our separate ways, Han. Once the Vong are gone, if they are ever gone, then we'll have the New Order to deal with all over again."

"Still as perceptive as ever," Adrian observed of Leia. "What a pity you don't put that insight of yours to better use. Were you in practice of _applying _your wit, your homeworld might still exist." She blinked, and just stared at him. She'd had about all she could take.

She took a step toward him and leaned close, as the Royal Guards raised their weapons. "If I had told you Yavin IV . . . "

He looked back at her, and some of the hardness of his chiseled appearance went away. "Let's go on into the observation pod."

"Here we go again," Han muttered as he followed the rest. 

Adrian could tell they were at last starting to break through Leia's stubbornness, and so he waited for her to select a seat before dismounting his scooter. Then he moved onto the sofa right next to her. She sighed in disgust and looked away. "Leia, look at me. We can end this mutual misery we continue to inflict upon one another right here and now if you will only listen to me." He spoke to her almost as if speaking to a child, and she immediately resented it.

"Don't patronize me, Tarkin!" she warned. 

"You're right," he conceded, moving back from her a bit. "It's just that things would have been so very different had it not been for that blasted Kenobi! Did you ever think of what might have happened had that Jedi-vermin not spirited you away in the night? If your father had found out about you, located you? Who do you think would have raised you? Your father certainly wasn't the type for youngsters."

Leia drew back slowly. "You _knew_!"

"Not until I saw you on the station. I realized it then. I didn't remember it all until earlier this evening, but yes, at the time, I suspected that you were Vader's daughter." He reached out and took her chin in his hand, just as he'd done aboard the Death Star. "Your face, your eyes, it was as if Senator Amidala herself stood before me there on that overbridge. It all made sense then, your mother's presence on Alderaan after your father's transformation, the resemblance, the well-known fact that you'd been adopted . . . Hence I went along with your father's plan to release you and track your ship to the Rebel base. He and I were very close, you see, and had I allowed him to execute his own daughter without voicing my suspicions, he might have reacted most unfavorably if he had ever found out that I knew. I don't think he recognized you himself because he had buried his past so deeply. It was a most forbidden subject with him."

Leia finally drew away, and Han put a hand on her shoulder. More bombshells. An entire fleetload in one night. She looked up at him again. "And if I'd told you the truth?"

"I would have maintained the station's position at Alderaan until we received verification. At that point, then, I would have reported to the Emperor that we had the base in a suitable location for an effective demonstration and were proceeding to Yavin. With the Rebellion ended, there would have been no need to squander the resources of either Alderaan or Chandrila."

Han interceded. "Yeah, but then I'd have been able to deliver the droid and Kenobi to Organa on Alderaan as planned, and the Alliance could have still blown your battle station!"

"Doubtful. We would have blockaded Alderaan, of course, but we would have had no need to tractor all ships attempting to enter the system. You would merely have been sitting out a blockade, upping your price as time passed, I'm sure. Or, you would have expressed the dangers of an Imperial blockade to your passengers and cut out of there. Hence, it's unlikely you would have been able to deliver the plans in time, and even if you had, you most certainly would not have been at Yavin to offer your assistance to Mr. Skywalker. You would have collected your fee and been on your way, no?"

Han shook his head. Indeed, the Emperor knew him well. 

And that would have left me aboard the Death Star without hope of rescue--and scheduled for execution. What then, Tarkin?"

"I'd have voiced my concerns to your father. Your fate would then have been in his hands."

"Ha! I told you I was surprised you had the courage to take the responsibility for my execution upon yourself!"

"Some fate!" Han quipped.

Adrian continued. "And then, with the Rebellion ended, I would have ascended the throne shortly after Yavin, order would have been restored--and improved, I might add--our fleet of eight Death Star class battle stations would have been completed, and the Vong would have minded their place."

"And you'd most likely be dead by now." Han pointed out.

"Yes, you're quite right. But how many others might be alive? Marc, Nerah . . . Anakin?"

"Don't you _dare_ drag my son's name--" But then she realized he was right. She shook her head and looked away from him. "And so I should just surrender my nation to you here and now based upon your flimsy speculation of what might have been? Your _opinion_ of what should have been? Your regime would still have been a dictatorship, Tarkin! The Rebellion would have regrouped and risen again to strike you down!"

"In the face of eight stations?"

"We managed to destroy three!"

"Yes, you might have gotten that many. But we would have moved rapidly ahead of you technologically, as my dear friend Raith Sienar quickly did within the decade. Now, as for, how did you put it, a _surrender_, Leia, for once in your life, be a realist instead of an idealist! We _have_ the station. New Impyria will construct more. We are strongly allied with the Chiss and the Senex. Dozens of systems rejoin our ranks every week because your regime has been unable to protect them--to maintain _order_. Are you even aware that Ryloth has rejoined the Empire? Leia, your . . . _nation_, or what you feel resembles a nation, has been ravaged of its resources by the Vong invasion, which, as I just explained, you helped to bring about. If this scourge ends in favor of this galaxy, your New Republic simply does not have to power to stand on its own anymore. You've lost your capital, most of your shipyards, most of your natural resources--why, you've been set back a good _two millennia _in terms of progress. You can't win. This galaxy is tired of fighting. I shall offer an end to it."

Leia looked out the viewport. "Sure you will, Tarkin. Perpetual fear. That's what you'll offer the galaxy!"

He shook his head slightly at her. "After what this galaxy has just been through, I shant have to. Fear of something of the like happening again--happening without order and a means of defense--will bring the Galactic Empire back together, not fear of me. Over the past half-century, the galaxy has seen its full spectrum of choices. Have you ever stopped to think about what might have happened had the Vong launched a full invasion back at the time of the Battle of Zonama Sekot? The Republic had deferred to the Jedi for its protection. Its defenses were nil. Why, the best possible defense of that day would have been a combination of the military resources of the Trade Federation and the Outland Regions Security Force--both of which, I might remind you, I commanded. But I was only twenty-nine years old then. What did I know? Not enough to defend the galaxy from something like the Vong, I can tell you that!"

"That's right, Tarkin! You have all the answers, as usual," Leia retorted.

He looked away. "I wish I did. We wouldn't be facing disaster right now if I did."

A spark of humility! Leia could hardly believe her ears! But what if he was right? 

"So we'll let everybody decide. That's what Gavrisom and Pellaeon did. We'll offer the beings of the galaxy both systems, and let 'em decide," Han suggested.

"And split the galaxy in two again?" Leia queried. "We'd be right back where we were thirty years ago, at the start of the Clone Wars. Besides, _he_ won't settle for anything short of full galactic redomination!"

"That ain't gonna be easy. The Hutts want their own space back, too, and almost lost their slimy asses to the Vong tryin' to get their way. I don't think the Chiss will join either side, and neither will the Senex," Han elaborated.

For the first time in this conversation, Typhani spoke up. "Well, then, perhaps what we need is a galactic consortium of sorts, a Prime Council, or some such."

"Excuse me, dearest, but whose side are you on?" the Emperor asked, looking askance at his wife.

"Wilhuff, Bevel, and Taeodor's. Such a conglomerate would require a strong, experienced leader, of course," the Empress clarified, beaming at her husband.

"I won't share power with war criminals or tyrants!" Leia spat, glaring over at the Emperor.

"Hey, easy! These ain't formal negotiations. But at least we're talkin'," Han moderated.

"Nor will I with idealistic zealots who spawn insurrection and threaten order," the Emperor insisted.

Han held up his hand. "Okay, all right, then neither one of you two get to be on the Council. You can be the emperor of your empire, you can be the president of your republic, Zorba the Hutt can be the king of his clan, and so can Isolder--we forgot about Hapes--and so forth, but _you_ and _you_ send somebody else to the central body or whatever!"

Adrian looked over at Typhani, who nodded back at him. At that, Leia glared at Han. "Yeah, okay, I'll do it."

"You would do well to be ever mindful of your husband's loyalties," the Emperor pointed out. "He's switched sides before."

"Yeah, only after Nyklas nearly killed my best buddy! And while we're on that subject, why me, Tarkin? A hundred officers deserted the Empire every week! Why pinpoint me and set both Vader and Fett on my tail? Was I, uh, _special _or something?"

The Emperor looked almost admirably at him. "Yes, General Solo, you were. You were at the time, and as far as I know you still are, the best star pilot in this galaxy. Your loss proved a heavy one for the Empire, and for me. I sent Fett and Vader out after you because I knew your value." Then he smiled thinly at Han. "I always felt safe with you at the helm. I entrusted my family to your skills on numerous occasions."

Leia's eyes darted at her husband. "You? Him? _Them_?"

"You were the one who kept requesting me!" Han realized.

"Yes," Adrian admitted.

"I don't understand," Leia complained.

Han explained. "When it came to the higher-ups, Leia, we usually never knew who we were flying. It was to keep us from being distracted or intimidated. We were always given a code level for security purposes, but most of the time the cockpits were sealed."

"Don't let him stroke your ego," Leia warned her husband. 

The Emperor chuckled again.

Leia scowled at him.

"General Solo, how do you do it? I can't fathom where she got that tongue! Her foster-father was a most soft-spoken gentleman," Adrian asked.

"It ain't easy sometimes," Han grinned, patting Leia on the knee.

"You want to know where I got it, Tarkin? Do you remember the first time we met, when you visited my father on Alderaan?" Leia challenged.

He smiled fondly at her. "Oh, yes. You were being quite naughty, as I recall."

"Yes, and when my father mentioned my future service in the Senate, do you remember what you said? You suggested that he wean me first. I was ten years old! I paid you back before evening's end, but I always remembered what a pithy insult it was. I listened closely to your rhetoric from then on. It seems you can't take your own medicine!"

"I can't imagine that you'd emulate me," Adrian observed.

"Only when it serves to _undermine _you," Leia clarified pointedly.

"You paid him back?" Han asked, moving to diffuse another altercation.

"Oh, yes, she did!" the Emperor recalled with a laugh.

"What'd you do?" Han pressed his wife with a teasing tone in his voice.

"I pelted him with a water balloon from my balcony," Leia admitted with a slight snicker.

Typhani laughed. "I remember this one!"

"Splatt!" Adrian continued jovially. "All over me! I was _drenched_! And Ackbar! He was waiting outside for me, that was the first time I ever saw or heard a Mon Cal laugh! And Bail, he's standing there, right? Ever the diplomat, he was trying his utter best not to double over with laughter, trying to apologize elaborately for his daughter's misbehavior, and all the while his mouth kept twitching into a smile and his face grew steadily redder with the strain of his containment! Of course, at the time I was furious, but looking back on it, well--"

At last, Leia had started to laugh as well, but then, at the Emperor's description of the man she knew as her father, in that light and happy moment that he and his future murderer had shared with her looking on . . . Her stomach jolted, and she burst into uncontrollable tears as she leapt from the sofa and ran across the room to the viewport. She put her hands on the ledge, bent over, crying openly, a rare moment of grief in a most inopportune situation.

"Oh, my, I didn't--" Adrian gaped at her, suddenly realizing what he'd done, both aboard the Death Star and now. At last, the two galactic adversaries connected on a level they could both understand. How often had his own daughters, during his absence, painfully recalled once-fond memories they'd had with him? Now they had their father back, but Leia had only her memories and her grief. Finally, through empathy for his own daughters' pain, he could at last feel hers, not in the Senate, and not on a political or planetary scale, but in that special place where fathers and daughters connect. 

Han had started to get up to go to his wife, and Lady Tarkin had edged forward in her seat as well, but Adrian waved them both back. Han reluctantly and warily resumed his seat, eyeing Tarkin hawkishly. Adrian carefully made his way across the room, steadying himself on the viewport ledge near Leia. He didn't touch her, though.

She thought it was Han--and unwittingly threw herself into the arms of her arch-nemesis. "Let go of me! Get away from me!" she shrilled angrily, writhing and twisting. But he'd grown strong enough to hold her. 

He spoke softly to her, something she'd never heard him do. She quieted, mainly so she could hear him. "No, Leia. I wasn't thinking just then, about what that might have brought back for you."

"From that very night, I always knew you would do something terrible to Alderaan! And you killed my father, you bastard! You killed my father!"

He took her shoulders and pushed her back a bit, then took her chin in his hand again, raising her head. "On behalf of the Empire, I did what I felt necessary at the time based on the information and orders I had. Looking back on it, I see that there might have been other options, and I too wish circumstances had transpired differently. But now, there's nothing I or anyone else can do to change what happened. If I could, I would. 

"I had always regarded Bail as a spineless weakling and a coward for his disarmament of Alderaan and his idealistic political views. But when one considers the grave risks he took first by taking in you and your mother, and then by supporting the Rebellion, well, those derogatory designations of mine don't seem to fit anymore. His good heart was both his greatest strength and his greatest vulnerability, and . . . I exploited that." She started to twist away again, but he gripped her chin, forcing her to look up at him again. "Leia, I know it will never be enough, but I'm sorry that you lost your father--and your home. Let go of your grief and your anger. Give them to me. I created them, so I deserve them."

At last, he released her, and she pulled back from him, staring at him. At least for the moment, he no longer represented to her the embodiment of everything evil that the Galactic Empire and Palpatine's New Order had been. For an instant, he was just Wilhuff Tarkin, husband and father, unarmed, unthreatening in his jumpsuit and slippers, someone she'd never met, never knew existed. In that instant, she at last saw what Qwi and Ackbar had seen, and in that brief flash of insight, she learned how to reach him.


	19. A Source of Power

**Chapter 19:**

**A Source of Power**

"The logistical reports are in. Calamari was a complete route this time," Madame Director Ysanne Isard reported to the Emperor as she strode down the ramp of her shuttle. 

"As much I should expect. Flennic had nothing but good things to say about Ackbar. He is indeed an excellent commander and tactician."

"He had a good teacher," Ysanne pointed out amiably, coming in stride alongside him as they made their way through the hangar bay. Ysanne noticed how much steadier Adrian's gate had become over the past few weeks. He stopped or misstepped much less often now. 

Adrian smiled slightly at the compliment. "What were the strategic results?" he asked as they entered the corridor leading to the Installation's hub pod.

"Two of their larger ships destroyed, and most of their fighters. The megonite disruption caused the two large worldships to collide, but the damage wasn't total. Flennic finished them off with the station's prime weapon."

"Excellent! I'm sure your tactical reports will be invaluable to the scientific teams. They've been working round the clock, and making good progress, I might add."

"That's good. What's the verdict so far?"

"It looks like a magnetic disruption caused by the vibrofrequency. If that pans out, it seems both Bevel and Typhani are right."

"That would make sense. Such an effect would certainly disrupt their navigation instruments."

"Yes, well, we think the megonite may also have an effect on Vong physiology itself. The moss itself is biomagnetic, you see, and so Qwi thinks the vibrofrequency may be intolerable to them, something to do with the middle ear."

"That would be an added bonus, certainly," Ysanne noted as they stopped before a viewport. "My, Adrian, this place is quite a piece of work. I can't believe you never told any of us about it."

"Of course you understand why."

"Yes, of course."

"The Maw Installation will surpass its previous splendor--and _effectiveness_--once we reconnect and restore the four remaining pods."

"But you've no reason to hide in the Maw anymore."

"Not at present, no, but should we have another problem like the Vong, the location will continue to be most advantageous."

"Quite so."

Ysanne was about to turn down the corridor leading to the laboratories and conference room when Adrian put out a hand to stop her. "I need to ask you about something else."

"Do we need to move to a more secure location?"

"No. It's nothing of military intelligence," he noted, glancing around the end of the empty corridor to make sure they were alone. "You were on Coruscant shortly after the Conclave on Phelarion, no?"

"Well, yes, I was. Unfortunately, I didn't make it out there in time. I was busy with Rebel affairs, and had scheduled to arrive on the third day of the conference. But, thanks to the Rebels, it didn't last that long. I talked to Typhani, I guess it would have been toward the end of the conference, and she told me that, for the moment, everything was in hand. Lord Vader and General Hublin were there with her."

"And she came to Coruscant shortly afterwards?"

"Yes. I was most glad to see her. Cos thought a season at court would do her good. He'd asked too much of her too quickly, ad he knew it."

"That's odd . . . " 

"What?"

"Cos wasn't angry with her?"

"Well, he was, of course, displeased with the debacle the Conclave had become, and I think they may have discussed it briefly."

He shot her a knowing, intense glance. "Ysanne, come forth now. What did he do to her? What did he do such that Vader had to block her memories?"

Ysanne's mouth dropped open a bit, and she quickly raised a hand to cover it. "She remembers now?" she asked, quite concerned.

"Not everything, but yes. She has a general memory of something awful that happened to her on Coruscant following the Conclave. She said something about Vader finding her, in the cold. What did Cos do to her, Ysanne? I have to know."

Ysanne took a step back, and averted her eyes. "It wasn't Cos. He never touched her, not then, at least. It was Kasmiru Tiu and Roganda Ismaren."

"The concubines?"

"Yes. They felt . . . threatened, you see. They thought you were dead, as we all did, and those two and the others, they worried that if a--_union_--were to take place, that they would be disposed of. And so, Kasmiru and Roganda--Adrian, are you sure you want to hear this?"

He looked away this time. "Go on," he finally told her.

Ysanne lowered her voice. "They got a bagrunelle egg from somewhere. We never found out where, because Cos didn't let Kasmiru live long enough to tell us, not that she would have, anyway. I actually suspect it was Roganda who got the thing. We think they planted it in a tray of canapés that had been taken to Typhani's chambers one evening. She loved the things, you know. Then Kasmiru told the maid that she wouldn't be needed, and said that the Emperor had asked her to tend to Lady Tarkin personally. She and Roganda locked Typhani in her quarters and cut her comms." 

Adrian had turned his head away, and folded his arms tightly across his midsection. "Tell me the rest," he reluctantly insisted.

"Well, it amazed us all that she still had the strength to get away from the thing once it matured. The concubines had sealed her inside her bedchamber, so the only place she could go was the balcony. There was a fountain in the corner, and she'd got behind it to get out of the wind. That's where Vader found her, but she was in shock by then. Vader found the bagrunelle as well. As engorged as it was, we knew the blood loss had been considerable. He sliced the thing to pieces with his saber. And he sat with her for the next few days as she somehow managed to recover. Vader said he'd seen to it that she wouldn't remember."

"Well, she remembered something of it, but attributed it to Cos." 

"If she didn't know . . . Or, she may think Cos ordered it done to her. She did seem awfully wary of him for awhile. But Cos was furious when he found out what happened to her. He interrogated everyone, and the chambermaid implicated Kasmiru, who, of course, implicated Roganda in turn. You see, Roganda wanted Cos for herself. She had assured Kasmiru that she would dispatch the maid, but she neglected to do so. Thus, Roganda sought to eliminate her rival Kasmiru as well as Typhani. At the time, I didn't know why Cos spared Roganda, but now we know that she was one of his Hands, and up to her chin in covert operations for him. Nonetheless, she got a good reaming herself, but still nothing like what Typhani got. Are you all right?"

He didn't answer right away. "The thought of her going through that alone . . . after what Vader had already done to her . . . "

"I know. It took a few months, but we got her back on her feet." 

"And this Roganda, she's living on Tallaan now?"

"Adrian, Roganda is dead! Wherever did you hear that she was living on Tallaan?"

"Typhani told me."

"Hmmmph. Undoubtedly, that's what Irek told Typhani. No. He killed her, for what she'd done to him. We let it go because, well, who could blame the lad?"

"She's fortunate she's dead," the Emperor growled warily. "They both are. Though I'd be at a loss to think of something worse that wouldn't kill them too quickly!"

Ysanne nodded to him. To be infected with a bagrunelle meant torture in the severest degree as the host's gastric acids dissolved the outer membrane of the egg, thus releasing the fast-growing parasite inside. The unfortunate victim would then spend the next eighteen hours in untold agony as the maturing vermin made its way through the digestive tract, gorging itself with blood, leaving its host exhausted, anemic, dehydrated, and devoid of nutrients--and in many cases, dead. Once the matured, half-meter-long, bright blue, centipede-like creature made its way to the outside, it would turn back on its host for the kill. Within minutes of its emergence, the oxygen in the air would activate glands in the feet which secreted a neurotoxic venom capable of dissolving skin and flesh on contact, leaving the weakened victim paralyzed and covered with hundreds of infectious lesions. Then, the adult bagrunelle would lay fresh eggs in the open sores. Few victims ever got away from a bagrunelle in time, but somehow Typhani had managed to crawl away to the safety of her balcony, only to add shock and hypothermia to her injuries. 

With a pallid look on his face and knots in his stomach, Adrian turned down the corridor to find his wife, only to encounter her coming toward him.

"Adrian, Bevel and Qwi think we need to move operations to Phelarion, so they can work with larger samples. The crates of megonite we brought are almost empty." Then she noticed Ysanne, a foreboding and all-too-familiar expression on her face, a look of empathy in her eyes she had not seen since . . . Typhani took a step or two backwards, the back of her right hand going to cover her mouth as her left clasped at her midsection. Adrian pulled her close to steady her, and Ysanne moved to her other side. 

"I can't deal with this now! They need me back there!" She fought hard to push the unwelcome rush from her mind.

"Typhani," Ysanne said softly to her best friend as she put a hand on her back, "it wasn't Cos. He didn't do it. He didn't order it. He didn't even know. It was Kasmiru and Roganda. That's why he killed Kasmiru. Remember the court rumor that she had defied him? He executed her and severely punished Roganda for what they'd done to you. But you'd had such a time with the ordeal that they thought it best you not remember any of it. All we'd told you is that you'd been ill. When did you remember, and think it was Cos?"

"A few years ago, I suppose," Typhani responded shakily, trying to draw a few deep breaths to retain her composure. 

"That's my fault. I should have told you at some point."

Typhani just shook her head at that. "It helps to know it wasn't Cos." At least not that time, she recalled with a shudder.

"Are you gong to be all right?" Adrian asked her. She nodded to him after a moment, wiping at the corners of her eyes with the heel of her hand.

The sound of soft footsteps approaching through the echoing corridor drew their attention away as Leia Organa-Solo came into view. 

"Adrian, there you are. The others need you back in the conference room." Then she noticed Ysanne, whom she'd never met, but for whom she'd held unfathomable contempt as well for her torturous interrogations of members of the Rebel Alliance. She took a step back. "Hello, Madame Director," she said politely, ever an air of diplomacy in her tone.

Shocked at Leia's familiarity with the Emperor, Ysanne shot questioning glances between the two. Adrian nodded warmly to Ysanne.

"Call me Ysanne," she acknowledged congenially.

Leia continued. "My brother will join us there as well, and would like to meet you."

"Very well, then. Close, are we?"

Leia shook her head slightly. "As close as we're going to get."

"And how is that?" Ysanne queried.

"We must build a vibroweapon, one powerful enough to emit a magnetic pulse from the mineral properties of the moss strong enough to repel the Vong," the Emperor explained.

Ysanne's mouth dropped open, and her eyes narrowed incredulously. "The size of a planet, that would have to be, Adrian!"

He looked back over his shoulder at her, raising an eyebrow. "Why, Ysanne, Bevel, Qwi, and I have built things as large as a planet before," he noted curtly.

"So you have!" Ysanne acknowledged, smiling, as she followed the two galactic leaders into the Installation's scientific wing conference room. For the first time, Leia found herself glad that Tarkin and Lemelisk were alive.

-- -- -- -- --

A convoy comprised of half a dozen _Lambda_ class Imperial shuttles and one aging Corellian YT-1300 made its way toward the moss-covered planet Phelarion. The Emperor and the Empress Apparent no longer ever traveled in the same shuttle, and so Sienar Fleet Systems had faced a rush to deliver extra vehicles to the Emperor's motor pool prior to the coronation. Landing in orderly succession on the pad atop Tarkin Megonite's main production facility, each shuttle momentarily touched down gracefully as its occupants disembarked, gathering in a group at the edge of the landing pad awaiting a transport to the main estate. The _Millennium Falcon_ then came in behind them. landing on the far corner of the pad to leave room for other incoming vessels.

Leia, of course, felt mixed feelings upon returning to Phelarion, an uneasy sense of familiarity settling unpleasantly into her gut. Perhaps sensing this, the Empress moved to put a hand on her shoulder. "You're here as our guest this time," she reminded her. 

Then quite suddenly, all heads turned in the direction of Rivoche Tarkin's rapidly approaching voice. "Ysanne! Ysanne! Uncle Adrian! We've got to do something quickly!"

"What now, Rivoche? What is it?" the Emperor asked, catching his breathless niece by her arms.

"Corulag! The Vong are headed for Corulag! Aunt Morgana can't get out! Ephin Saretti is on his way, but our cruisers aren't fast enough! He'll never get there in time!"

Adrian went white, and would have all but collapsed had he and Rivoche not been holding fast to one another. "No. Not Morgana . . . What_ever_ is she doing on Corulag?"

"I'll get her," Han said, thinking quickly. 

"What?" Rivoche asked.

"I'll get her out. The _Falcon_ is fast enough."

"Han, but . . . " Leia began. Then she pulled him aside. "What are you thinking?"

"What I'm thinking is that I've gone head-to-head with the Vong before, and I gotta few scores to settle. Besides, this little 'goodwill gesture' just might get us a few extra bargaining chips with Empy Willie over there."

Leia scowled. "Don't do this, Han. Don't deliberately put yourself in harm's way, not for _them_!"

"Leia, we gotta show the Vong they can't stop us," he insisted.

"So that's what it's about. You're looking for an opportunity to even the score, or to prove to yourself that you really can extract people? They may still have Jacen, Han!"

He glared hard into her eyes. "That's what I'd like to find out." 

Then all eyes turned skyward as a New Republic E-wing fighter cleared the security perimeter. Shocked by the news of his sister, Adrian found himself temporarily unaffected by the fact that he was about to come face-to-face with the man who had dropped two proton torpedoes on his head and obliterated his beloved Death Star. "Luke!" Leia observed. "Just in time!"

"Yeah, yeah," Han said. "He can take over for me here. I gotta get moving." Han then promptly jogged back across the landing pad toward the _Falcon_ as Luke climbed out of his fighter. The two met briefly on the tarmac, and then Luke approached the group as Han made fast for his ship. 

The Jedi Master stopped a few steps out as the Emperor turned to face him. Luke put his hands together before him as a Jedi gesture of humility. "It is an honor to meet you at last, Your Excellency," he said, not putting much emphasis on the word _honor_. He had taken his diplomatic cues from his sister.

Adrian merely looked past him as the _Falcon's_ engines started, mouthing his sister's name.

"Not to worry. He'll get her," the Jedi assured the Emperor. 

"I hope you're right," Adrian finally acknowledged, then drew himself up. "So this is the maverick young pilot from Tatooine who dispatched me into a quarter century of oblivion and tossed the galaxy into never-ending upheaval!" His contempt for Jedi was one thing Adrian could not, would not, hide, even in the face of the most formal diplomatic proceedings. 

Luke smiled it off, but stood his ground. "Be sure, Your Excellency, that I personally regret the injury and death that resulted from the destruction of your battle station, but the weapon had to be stopped. Perhaps now we can move ahead without any further harm to one another." Indeed the events of the next few days would determine that as the group moved inside to Tarkin Megonite's main conference room to continue the scientific summit.

-- -- -- -- --

The group of New Republic and New Impyria scientists had determined prior to departing the Maw that the best vibroweapon would be a well-compacted, meter-high crystal created from megonite moss, a diamond-like structure, that would vibrate at the frequency of a megonite warhead, placed somewhere in the galaxy's Deep Core. Amplification platforms placed strategically around the galaxy would pick up the crystal's signal, reverberating it outward, thus driving the Vong out of the galaxy and keeping them out. But the type of crystal needed to accomplish such a vibrofrequency would require an unprecedented density and standard of clarity and perfection, such that all feared the ideal weapon might remain only a theory on Qwi Xux's datapad.

Bevel Lemelisk spoke vehemently to explain why. "To compact the megonite into a crystal form of that size and structure would take _millions _of years and more pressure than anything we've got or can possibly fabricate," he observed. "We'd need an almost--_supernatural_--power source for this, to get it the right size to vibrate at the correct frequency! We need to move on here!"

"But we've nothing else to move on to!" Jil Bramm insisted.

"Perhaps the Jedi can help," Luke offered, speaking up from his corner.

"All right. Let's hear it," Daala said, folding her arms across her chest. After all, the Jedi at Skywalker's Academy on Yavin IV had somehow managed to cast seventeen _Victory_ class Star Destroyers to the edge of the system. 

"I believe that the Emperor and Empress have the power, if properly harnessed, to generate sufficient energy to mold the necessary crystal."

"Look, Jedi, we're dealing with an _invasion_ here. We don't have time for this hocus-pocus," the Grand Admiral snapped sternly, raising her hand to him in a push-away motion.

Luke resumed his place, having planted his seed. Perhaps a little more frustration among the group of geniuses assembled before him would spawn its growth. In the interim, the time had come for his own private audience with the new Emperor.

Flanked at a slight but still safe distance by the Emperor's guards, Luke and Adrian strode along at an easy pace through the plaza between the Tarkins' main house and the office complex, discussing at first matters of state and military. Then, Luke briefly shared with the new Emperor his experiences with the clone of the old one. While Adrian did not lend credence to the Jedi "religion," as he and other lead Imperials had oft termed it, he had never denied the power that Force-users possessed, having seen Vader and Palpatine apply it many times over. And so, he came back to a point the Jedi had made earlier in the conference room.

"You have an idea of how the crystal we need could be created, perhaps through the use of the powers of the Jedi, no?"

"You and Lady Tarkin," Luke began to explain calmly, "the two of you, together, possess the capability to generate enough energy to create the crystal."

The Emperor stopped mid-stride, glancing sharply over at the Jedi Master, the lack of credence coming back across his thin face. "What can you possibly mean by that?" he retorted incredulously.

"You are both Force-sensitive," Luke continued, "extremely so. You, as a pair, are something known as a _latent diode_. You have never perceived your Force-sensitivity because you are _latent_. The strange perceptions, experiences, and abilities your wife has experienced, however, are a result of her non-latent sensitivity. She merely requires training."

"No," Adrian told him. "It's not what you think. Her perceptions are not from what you and your kind refer to as 'the Force'. Instead it is something similar, and yet quite different at the same time."

"I don't understand," the Jedi Master said, wrinkling his brow.

And now the Emperor would deal the final blow to the Jedi, not only to the Master who strolled casually beside him, but to the whole lot, before their numbers undesirably reached their pre-Clone Wars levels. But this time, instead of wreaking ruthless havoc upon the unfortunate and misguided dredges, he would ply gently, as his predecessor had, something to which he was only recently becoming accustomed.

"Our galaxy has undergone momentous transformations in the last century, transformations previously unprecedented in our entire history. The Jedi have suffered much, and caused much suffering, throughout these times of change. So perhaps it's time that the Jedi adapt as well."

"Adapt?" Luke queried, becoming somewhat suspicious of the Emperor. Recent rumors had put him behind the Peace Brigade.

"Yes. We're not all that different, you know, although we are bitter philosophical rivals."

"We?"

"Yes. The Jedi and those of us here in the Outer Rim, we who believe in and tap into something we call the Power of the Essence. You see, we also use thought patterns and energy fields to enrich and transform our lives, and to manipulate our environment, but it's not like your mystic Force. For the first part, we do not believe in manipulating each other with such power. To do so without permission is considered mind-rape, the worst possible sacrilegious defiling of another being--and of the Essence, or, the Universe itself. Hence, what you do with your Jedi mind-tricks to control others is most heinous blasphemy to us. We believe it acceptable to use power gained in a secular way, such as through military or political channels, to control others, but not spiritual energy."

"I've only read of this," Luke admitted. "I didn't know that anyone still practiced that belief system. Please, go on. I'd like to know more. Perhaps it would help us to--coexist--if we better understood each other's beliefs."

The two paused to sit by the fountain Basilisk in the plaza.

"Yes, not many do outside of the Senex. Our religion originates in that sector, on a planet called Aquilae. My family is for the most part atheistic, as was I, until I met Typhani and the rest of the Mottis. Typhani's cousin Raolf, he was absolutely zealous on the matter. Not a greater Jedi-hater ever lived, save Palpatine. In a way, an ironic way, I suppose, it's two variations of the same thing, our religion and yours. Uncanny, isn't it, that the belief systems that seem most similar end up being the bitterest of enemies, as if we're fighting for the same territory, or, perhaps, the same thought-wave channel," Adrian told Luke in as congenial and casual a tone as he could muster when dealing with the man who had unleashed two proton torpedoes directly at him. For the future sake of the galaxy, however, he needed to make this point and make it well. "You see, we believe in something we call the 'Power of the Essence,' which is actually the divine creative energy of the Universe. And then we have the Trinity of Being, which consists of Life, Sentience, and the Collective Unconscious. The latter, I suppose, is what you Jedi keep in your holocrons. We have no holocrons because we believe that everyone can tap into the Collective Unconscious. So in a way, everyone has a holocron reader in his or her head. We do, however, believe in keeping detailed records of our lives for future generations, but these are personal records kept in familial archives, and are not considered doctrine as many Jedi holocrons are. And as for the Power of the Essence, there is no 'Light Side' and no 'Dark Side.' The Essence contains both, you see, as does each and every sentient being in the Universe. Hence, our respective beliefs are very similar, but ours lacks the arcane weaponry, strict dichotomy, and elitist trappings of the Jedi."

Luke looked somewhat sarcastically at Tarkin, and tried to lighten the subject in order to return the conversation back to the matter of the crystal. "Now since when did you ever have a problem with the elitist?" he half-teased.

"When it destroys order," Adrian replied sharply. Luke nodded. 

Adrian continued. "If you Jedi wish to continue in your ways--and I think to do so in the face of what has happened would be foolhardy at best--but if you do choose to continue, then I strongly advise that you should find a remote safeworld somewhere to concentrate your population so that you do not draw uninvited attention to those around you. Should any clan or system require your services, they can ask. However, I can assure you that no Jedi will be allowed to live in New Impyria. Perhaps you can negotiate with the Chiss, Sssi-rusk, or the Hutts, or find neutral territory with 'amicable local authorities,' such as Daala did on Pedducis Chorios."

"I see," Luke half-muttered, having hoped for a slightly better reception from the new Emperor. However, considering the torpedoes, he knew he should have expected a chilly reception at best.

Still, Tarkin had a point about a safeworld for the Jedi, a suitable endpoint to the Great River, if the many powers gathering to find a solution to the Vong invasion could find success in their purpose. On that thought, Luke sought once again to draw the conversation back to the point at hand. "Despite our different beliefs, despite the names by which we call the divine forces to which we align ourselves, you and Lady Tarkin can create the crystal we need, with my guidance, of course."

"All right, I'm listening," Adrian conceded.

"I can show you how to channel your complementary energies through each other, cycling, building the power. I can harness it, harvest it from your auras, and direct it into the megonite."

"I have to tell you that this sounds at best very fanciful and far-fetched. I've never had a thing to do with the Jedi or your Force, save trying my best to destroy them. Yet I don't see what harm it could do to let you try your Jedi sorcery in that we have no other solutions at present," Adrian mused. He had begun to suspect that the Jedi was laying a trap for him and his wife, and Luke's next comment confirmed, then undermined, that suspicion.

"Well, that's just it," Luke continued as he turned even more serious in his tone. "The amount of energy created will be incredibly intense. In your . . . compromised condition, it could prove rather draining, perhaps debilitating, perhaps . . . there's a chance that perhaps you won't survive it."

_"If he is planning to try to kill us, why would he say so, especially when doing so at present would cast the very galaxy into the laps of the Vong?"_ Adrian thought. _"Could he possibly be serious about this?"_ Adrian shuddered a bit, but not enough for Luke to notice outwardly. Yet, unbeknownst to Adrian, Luke picked up the tremor inwardly through the Force. 

"I see," Adrian said quietly. "So you really believe this Jedi-energy-cycling feat will work?"

Luke answered straight away. "Yes, Your Excellency, I do. In fact, I feel that it's our best and only chance right now."

"You must understand how preposterous this sounds," Adrian commented.

Luke only nodded.

-- -- -- -- --

Han Solo exited hyperspace at Corulag to encounter a huge Vong worldship and an entire fleet of support fighters. Saretti and the New Impyrial fleet had indeed not arrived yet. Corulag didn't stand a chance. The Vong had struck hard and fast this time. He knew he had to get in quickly, and so he pulled up the coordinates of Morgana Tarkin's compound in the _Falcon's_ navicomputer.

Morgana had sent the servants away, telling them to do the best they could for themselves, then sealed herself into the bunker she had installed under her main house after the firebombing incident years earlier. As she waited either for rescue or for the end, she composed messages to friends and loved ones on her datapad, two blaster pistols and a rifle close at hand. A strange juxtaposition for humanity, she thought, but not so strange for these times. Deep down, she knew the fleet would not make it in time to save her. Nonetheless, she thought, she'd spent eighty active and vibrant years, her only real regrets being her hand in the loss of one brother and the years taken away from her relationship with the other.

To Gilad Pellaeon, she composed a simple, one-word message, "Yes." To Rivoche, an eternal welcome home. To her niece Lyjéa who would one day assume her mother's role as Empress, she assured that insight served far better than eyesight. And her remaining thoughts she would pour out to her brother until the end came. Then she heard the engines of an incoming ship, heard them stop. It had to be Vong, she knew. No. She would not allow them to take her and use her as a weapon against her brother. She quickly put her datapad into her breast pocket and took up one of the blaster pistols, positioning the barrel strategically under her chin. Then she waited until she knew for sure.

"Morgana!" Han shouted as he blasted his way into and tore his way through the house, the Vong attack already well under way. Of course they had spotted him slipping through their blockade, so he knew he had to find the Emperor's sister quickly, or not at all. 

Morgana recognized the voice as human, but she did not move, suspecting a Vong-sympathizing decoy or another hapless hostage sent to lure her out. Han continued to search every room of the house, keeping his eyes sharp for hiding places. Standing nearly on top of the concealed entrance to the bunker, hidden under a central hallway, Han called out again. "Captain Morgana Tarkin! It's General Han Solo, New Republic!"

Below, Morgana drew the blaster carefully away from her chin. What she had just heard was so uncanny that she couldn't help but believe it. Han stepped aside, readying his blaster, as he heard the slight hiss of a bulkhead hatch under his feet. One square meter of the marble flooring hydraulically lifted up before him. He took aim, but set for stun, just in case. Then he lowered his weapon in relief as a silver-haired Eriaduan woman climbed out of the bunker, handing him the rifle as she holstered the two hand-blasters about the belt of her flight suit. She knew of the scientific summit between her brother's government and the New Republic, but never dreamed that the likes of Solo would come the _her _rescue.

For a very brief moment, Han also found himself caught up in the surreal nature of the moment--an eighty-year-old woman in a flight suit with a blaster on each hip and fire in her piercing blue eyes. _"Only a Tarkin,"_ he thought, one corner of his mouth turning up into a smile.

"You?" Morgana asked.

"Yeah. I'll explain later. C'mon, we gotta move!" They could already hear exploding weapons and other ships overhead. Morgana knew the _Millennium Falcon's_ reputation far too well, and she knew she would be safe.

For an instant.

She drew first, firing rapidly at the two Vong commandos advancing on them between the ship and the house. Of course, their blaster bolts lacked total effectiveness against the organically engineered Vong armor, and so Morgana quickly drew her other blaster as Han shouldered the rifle. If they could even knock this squad of about six Vong back for just a few seconds, they could make the ship.

But the Vong knew the _Millennium Falcon's_ reputation also, as well as that of its captain. 

Back-to-back, as both had been trained in the Imperial military, Han Solo and Morgana Tarkin shot their way toward Han's ship. Their mutual training, something their bodies had never forgotten, proved their most valuable asset at the moment. Each knew what the other would do, should do, and could act accordingly. 

"Back me up!" Han shouted as he neared the _Falcon's_ boarding ramp, which he had left lowered. He would advance forward up the ramp, knowing his ship well, in case more Vong commandos had already boarded. Morgana kept her back pressed to his, her face a defiant snarl, firing at the Vong with a pistol in each hand. 

"There's more!" she shouted as more Vong came around the north side of her compound. "There's the leader! He's got a bioweapon shoulder cannon! He's heading straight for us!"

"One-eighty!" Han shouted. Morgana remembered the command, and she and Han spun around to change positions in an instant, moving in unison like a well-oiled gun turret.

Han squinted, setting the rifle's sites on the juncture between the Vong leader's chest plate armor and helmet. 

Yet his adversary lowered his bioweapon cannon, and motioned for his companions to stop the assault. Han almost squeezed the trigger anyway, but then in the momentary lull of fire, he faintly heard the Vong leader shout something in his direction. He lowered the blaster rifle only slightly, and cocked his head.

"Solo! Ah, Solo!"

"What is it? Come on!" Morgana shouted.

"Get on board! Go on!" he called back to her.

Morgana scrambled on board the ship as the Vong squad leader continued his approach. Han experienced a momentary twinge of urgency mixed with relief as he heard the _Falcon's_ engines whir out of idle in preparation for lift-off. Then he remembered. Morgana was a captain, and a very capable pilot herself. But he'd heard no more rounds from her blasters. The Vong had not wanted the ship. Be damned if they'd get it! Over his dead--

No. 

He drove the thought violently from his mind. It had been over Chewie's dead body that his beloved _Falcon_ had escaped before. He would not make the same mistake again.

Now the Vong squad leader drew close enough that Han could hear him without straining. "We have your son, Solo! You want to see your son, Solo? You want him to live, Solo? Or you give us another?" Then the squad leader held out his clawed hand in a mockery of invitation. Han gritted his teeth in raw anger and started to raise the rifle again, but found himself dumped on his backside as Captain Tarkin had activated the hydraulics to lift the boarding ramp. He rolled backwards into the cabin, barely managing to keep from firing the rifle. 

"No! Wait! They have my son! They've got my son!" Han shouted to Morgana as she whirled around in his chair to face him, somehow looking as though she had always belonged there. No, he couldn't ask her to stay, to sacrifice herself for Jacen's sake, but perhaps he'd just fallen into the best possible situation. He stared hard at Morgana, almost threateningly. Climbing to his feet, he pointed a decisive index finger at her. The words fell out of his mouth. "Can you fly her?"

Morgana smiled. "Why, yes, General. Don't you remember? She was to have been mine, my fortieth birthday present from my brother. I'd always wanted a prototype YT-1300, but you and your Wookiee-friend rather spoiled my day!"

Han took another step toward her. "They have my son, and they recognize me. They probably recognized the ship on my way in. I have to go back. I have to go with them or they'll kill my son! They just told me he's alive! Please, take the ship, get yourself outta here." He hesitated for a moment. "Tell my wife . . . If you make it back to Phelarion, tell Leia that I've gone after Jacen. Tell her Jacen's alive, and I ain't comin' back without him!"

"But General, you mustn't--"

Han put up his hand to silence her, then turned and punched his fist into the control to lower the ramp again. As he took the first step down, he turned back to her over his shoulder. "Not a scratch!" he insisted.

Morgana just nodded, closing the ramp behind him. "I hope he knows what he's doing," she muttered as she punched the _Falcon's_ throttle, giving the sublight engines the full power she would need to attempt a penetration of the Vong blockade. As she did so, a smile of exhilarated pride came across her face. At long last, and by fate alone, she sat at the helm of Solo's ship, what was to have been _her_ ship. She flew, and fought, valiantly, laying hard and relentlessly on the forward guns, gyrating the _Falcon_ between convoys of Vong coralskippers, damaging many as she did so. Even Han would have been proud to see her do it. 

-- -- -- -- --

Meanwhile, back on Phelarion, Luke had decided that he must approach Typhani about her special skills, confident that she would survive the forthcoming ordeal. After all, he realized, a healing that would send Cilghal into a nine-hour recovery trance would be little more than the stroke of a hand to Typhani after she had completed the proper training.

"You could be perhaps the greatest Jedi healer who ever lived," he told her as they walked through the plaza. She just laughed at him.

"No, I don't think so," she dismissed. "Luke, I am the Empress of New Impyria, a Jedi-free zone. That is an all-inclusive role in and of itself. I am not a Jedi, nor can I ever be a Jedi. Such is against our cultural values, our religion--and against my grain, for that matter." She hesitated for a moment, then continued. "The Jedi have caused my family great pain." Then she stared past him. "The Jedi and the Sith, for that matter." She, too, had a point she longed to discuss with the Jedi Master.

"The Sith?" Luke queried, his interest piqued.

"I don't know. I'm not sure." Then she turned to face him directly. "Look, I know you all have certain powers. I don't deny that. I know you can influence other beings, and that the Sith Arts are . . . degenerative . . . "

"Please, go on," Luke prompted her as she struggled to get to her point. "What do you know of the Sith Arts?"

"Only what I watched Palpatine go through during the last years of his life prior to Endor. The physical deterioration, his health . . . " Then she lowered her voice. "That negative energy the Sith generate, can it influence others, of its own accord?"

"Yes, of course it can. Why do you ask?" Luke sought to reach out to her mind at this point, but then pulled back, respectful of what her husband had said earlier about trespassing upon the minds of others. 

"It's Adrian. He spent all those years around your father and Palpatine, after all. He's only fifty-seven, you know, taking out the years in the carbonite. Before Yavin, he'd started having some of the same symptoms as his predecessor, the premature aging, the physical degeneration . . . His hair, for instance. It had thinned out so just before Yavin, and nearly turned white, but now it's coming back, and coming in dark at the roots, not gray. I mean . . . Look at Valdemar. Biologically, they're the same age, but Adrian . . . Oh, Luke, people used to say the most awful things! They'd call him a living cadaver, a walking corpse!" She met his eyes then. "And he isn't driven by rage anymore. Now I know he never practiced any of the things Palpatine and your father did, but I've often wondered if . . . if perhaps Cos was, you know, _doing tings_ to Adrian, using him somehow, without his knowing it?"

Luke could sense that the disclosure had been difficult for her, and so he let her catch her breath before continuing. "Oh, yes, that's quite possible. Because of your husband's Force latency, Palpatine could very well have been using him as a channel, a Sith amplifier of sorts, indeed without his knowledge."

Typhani looked away, and now she was wringing her hands. "Do you know how aberrant that is to us?"

Call it coincidence, but Luke answered. "Yes, Lady Tarkin, I do."

"Are there . . . residual effects?" she asked, worried.

Luke leveled with her. "There may be. Perhaps I can help."

"No, no, he's had enough! And he mustn't know I've discussed this with you."

"But if there is still a layer of negative energy in his aura, something Palpatine put there, if I could latch onto it and pull it away, it could help him tremendously, make him stronger."

She turned on him. "And why would you want to do that?"

"Because he's going to need every nanogram of strength he can muster to help you make the crystal."

She winced. "Yes. He told me. I don't know whether I believe such or not."

"But when you are close to him, you can feel his energy, and it magnifies your own, doesn't it."

"Yes," she admitted.

"This will all be clearer to you once I've had a chance to work with both of you," he assured her. 

To that end, Adrian had the servants clear the gymnasium, a large, well-lit room just off the conservatory, leaving only a few low benches along the windows. The following afternoon, Luke met the Emperor and Empress there to test their abilities and to work with them on enhancing their energies. Remembering what Rivoche had told him back on Coruscant, he instructed them to face each other. Still a bit bemused by his interest, they showed him, as Rivoche had, their various methods for "merging essences," as they had called it. With each demonstration, Luke could detect a sharp increase in the aural energies in the room, but certainly not enough to create the crystal. He was careful not to use the term "the Force" with them.

"It seems that with the two of you," he began to explain, "energy enters your bodies at two main points, at the solar plexus and at the center of the clavicle. It's good that you two are almost the same height. Let's try a more direct connection." They only looked at him, not quite understanding. He put a hand on each of their backs and pushed them closer together. "Wookiee hug," he explained. "And can you open the fronts of your robes in those two places? Direct contact will work best."

Typhani's cheeks blushed a slight red. "But we only do that when we-- Never mind." She suddenly understood, and loosened two snaps on her gown just below her breasts as Adrian loosened his collar a bit 

"That's better," Luke acknowledged once they had achieved the connection. Indeed, it was. The feeling had always been an utmost pleasure for them, but they had always just let their energies merge and blend, as if by osmosis. They were about to discover a whole new dimension to their abilities as the Jedi Master continued. "Now, both of you close your eyes. I want you to visualize your energies coursing through each other as light, yours yellow and yours blue," he directed as he touched each of them on the shoulder. Typhani had no trouble creating her yellow light in her mind's eye, but it took the latent Adrian a bit longer to muster his blue. "Now," Luke said, standing back from them, "imagine your light-energies coming together as a ring, a spiral or a pinwheel as you like, going round and round through each other. You've got to synchronize your thought waves."

For a long moment, the Imperial couple did not move, trying to achieve what the Jedi had instructed. When they did, they shot apart, taken utterly aback by the raw power of their mutual energies. Luke, too, felt as if a huge but invisible weight had been brought to bear on top of him. Both wide-eyed and catching their breath, the Tarkins stared at each other in awe. "You did that, didn't you?" the Emperor asked sharply.

"No, Your Excellency. You did it yourself! Now, please, let's try again. You have to be able to control the power, and maintain the cycles." By the end of the afternoon, they could do that. Tomorrow, Luke thought, he would teach them to speed the cycles up, and build the energy. Then he would know whether the megonite crystal would be feasible. 

The next day, all seemed to be going well to that end. Suddenly, though, Adrian pulled away, and nearly stumbled to the bench by the window. Typhani joined him, placing a hand on his forehead, concerned. Too hot.

"This is exhausting," he said as he tried to catch his breath. 

"He can't do this! It's too strenuous!" the Empress protested to Luke.

"No, no, we have to try. It's . . . rather obvious that there really is something to what he says. I've just got to get my strength up, that's all."

"Adrian . . . "

He leaned closer to her. "I've seen the Jedi do things like this, Typhani. Gideon and I once saw four of them raise a crashed shuttle packed with schoolchildren on a field trip out of a sumptuous bog without even touching it. Just four men! The craft rose into the air, as if its repulsors had reactivated, but the repulsors were gone, sheared off in a midair collision that caused the ship to crash in the first place! Then they set it down on solid ground just as gently as you'd set a teacup back in its saucer, so that our squadron could get to it and get the kids out! I didn't believe it at the time. Gideon and I argued for days about what we'd seen, and I even contacted Raith to ask him if the craft might have had some sort of emergency repulsorlift. It didn't."

She looked away, and only nodded slightly.

"Actually, I think you've got the idea now," Luke interceded, sitting down next to the Emperor. "Since it is rather exhausting for you, let's not waste any more energy on unnecessary practice. You two cycle better than a new ion engine!" he encouraged them. 

Luke then sought to return to a topic he'd discussed with the Empress two days previous. "Your Excellency, you never sensed anything of this kind in the presence of Vader or Palpatine?"

"Why no, not that I . . . " Typhani shot Luke a warning glance, and started to say something when her husband continued. "You know, now that you mention it, there always seemed to be this, I don't exactly know how to describe it, this _drive_ of sorts, always in the back of my mind. If ever I wavered on anything, any action or decision, and it wasn't often that I did, but if so, this--this _feeling_ would kick in and boost my resolve somehow, always in favor of the Emperor's will, it seemed." His hand had unconsciously gone to the back of his head.

"He may well have been influencing you," Luke offered.

"Well, I'm sure he was, but not in that way. He knew how I felt about that sort of thing, and . . . " Then a most unsettling thought came over Adrian. _"Would Cos have cared enough o respect his beliefs?"_

"So you knew Palpatine was the Sith Master?"

"Yes, of course I did. He never told me himself, but when your father first referred to his 'new master' after his altercation with Kenobi, I knew it could be none other than Palpatine, because that is who your father served. A lot of things suddenly made sense then, what happened at Naboo, how the Clone Wars started. Of course, I'd suspected it early on, but I didn't know for sure until your father's transformation. As long as Cos kept it to himself, I didn't--"

Luke interrupted. "Are you sure he kept it to himself? You've both indicated that he harmed you in other ways."

"Adrian, perhaps we--" Typhani began, but Luke didn't let her finish. 

"If he didn't keep it to himself, Your Excellency, if he did somehow implant some type of negative energy in you, it could still be there. It could very well be why you look and feel seventy-seven instead of fifty-seven. Think of what the Sith Arts did to Palpatine himself."

Typhani started to intercede again, but Adrian took her hand. "It's all right," he told her. Then to Luke. "Such is awfully mystical and at best highly theoretical. How could such a thing be detected?"

"I could tell, Your Excellency. Any Jedi Master could. And, believe me, you'd feel much better without it."

"How? How could you determine such a thing?"

"You'd . . . have to let me look."

The Emperor drew up and away slightly. But then he thought back to the no longer so mystical and theoretical energy cycles he and his wife had just created. "And . . . if you found something, something of Palpatine's . . . "

"I could draw it away, cast it into the Force," Luke explained confidently. He looked around the room for a moment. "Is there someplace else we could go, someplace you'd be more comfortable?"

This time, Typhani got in edgewise. "Adrian, no! He's trying to trap us! He'll hurt you!"

"If he does that, he doesn't get his crystal, does he?" Then he leaned very close to her. "Do you remember how we used to get ill after being around Cos too much?"

"There's a daybed in the conservatory," the Empress conceded at that realization.

"I know that after what happened at Yavin it's got to be awfully hard for you two to trust me, so this is what we're going to do," Luke began as Adrian lay down on the daybed. He then instructed Typhani to sit on the edge of the bed next to her husband and take his hands. "Now then. You can pull him away if there's any trouble, both physically and through the F--through the Essence." Typhani only nodded, and Adrian could tell that her hands were trembling slightly. Closing his eyes, Luke then cupped his hands gently under the Emperor's head.

Though the sensation was not at all painful this time, it brought back terrible memories of a time when it was. Gasping abruptly, he shot up off the daybed and into his wife's arms, wrenching his hands from hers and clasping them to the back of his head. She'd seen him do that before--shortly after they'd moved to Coruscant, shortly after Adrian had gone to work for Palpatine against the Jedi. 

That mysterious bout of migraines. Adrian had not been poisoned, not in the conventional way, at least. They both realized then. "He was doing it all along!" Adrian gasped, his emotions a mix of anger, betrayal--and fear.

"What has he done to you?" Typhani whispered, her eyes beginning to fill with tears.

"It doesn't matter now. Let's just get rid of it," Luke insisted. 

Reluctantly, Adrian lay back again, and Typhani held fast to him. Luke once again entered a Jedi trance, permeating the new Emperor's aura to cleanse it of the influence of the old. By the time he'd finished, Adrian had fallen asleep.

"Just let him rest," Luke said as Typhani tucked a throw over her husband. 

"I just can't believe he was doing this to us!" she cried, moving to the window.

Luke ambled over behind her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "He did things to you, too, didn't he?"

"Oh, yes," she answered shakily. "And not all of them so mystical." She shook her head and wiped at her eyes as she went to sit back down next to her husband.

-- -- -- -- --

His training exercises completed, Luke found his sister pacing nervously in the enclosed garden off the conservatory. "Hey, don't worry. Han will get Lady Morgana out, and he'll be fine. He always is."

"I know, I know. It's not just that. It's the crystal as well."

"What about the crystal?"

"Why can't you and I do this?" Leia asked her brother as she stopped pacing and turned abruptly on her heel. Although she had made some progress with the Tarkins, she couldn't quite call it peace. She didn't want them to have the credit for saving the galaxy.

"Because the principle behind the power of a latent diode is that their energies are complementary, opposites. Since we're twins, our energies are too much alike for this. It's a totally different kind of power," Luke explained.

"Power I don't want Tarkin knowing he has," Leia said, concerned. "If he gets too much too fast, he'll think he can just push right over us--again!"

"He can't do anything with it without Jedi training or a proper channel," he assured her.

"So you will be the channel?" she asked.

"If they can create the energy," Luke said, "I can channel it into the megonite to create a crystal of sufficient size, yes."

"But do you think Tarkin can withstand it in his weakened condition?" Leia asked.

"You care?" Luke asked, almost sarcastically.

Leia hesitated. "I'm not sure, but I know you do," she observed. 

"I don't know. The process may kill him," he answered. "I discussed that with him."

"He knows? And he's willing to go ahead with it?" she asked, strained.

He turned to face her. "Yes," he said simply.

She looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, perhaps that would be for the best."

"But what if it doesn't kill him? What if they're successful, and the crystal works? Can you forgive and let go then?" her brother asked pointedly.

She let out a long sigh and averted her eyes. "We've come to an understanding, a truce if you will, a pact not to harm one another any more in the future. But I can never forgive Tarkin for Alderaan," she insisted.

"Then that's a burden you must bear, Leia," he warned her matter-of-fact.

"I understand that, Luke, but I feel it is my duty to bear it." She looked back into his eyes then. "I must bear the burden because part of it might have been my fault. I might have been able to save Alderaan, and perhaps the entire galaxy from this blasted war, and the Vong, had I not been so young and stupid!"

Luke stopped suddenly and seized his sister by the arm. "What?"

She sighed again. "Let's find a place to sit down. This is going to take awhile."

Much as Luke had done to her on that bridge in the Ewok village back on Endor before he faced their father for the last time, Leia poured her heart out to her brother, some of it angrily, some of it tearfully, recounting to him all that the Tarkins had told him. "I don't know what to believe, Luke, about Palpatine abdicating!" she cried, leaning her head on his shoulder. "If it was the truth, then--then--by the stars, Luke, I bear as much responsibility as Tarkin!"

He cut in, squeezing her tightly. "No, Leia, that's not true, because you didn't know. You couldn't have known."

They sat like that for a long time, arm in arm, Luke comforting his sister through the Force, waiting for Han's return. Enough time had now elapsed for him to have reached Corulag, extracted Morgana, and returned to Phelarion. "If he's not back by nightfall, then you can worry," Luke told her.

Raycellna brought them a tray of tea and wafers, and just as they finished it, Luke sensed something. He squeezed Leia's wrist indicatively. "Here they come," he reassured her. No sooner had he uttered the words than the _Millennium Falcon_ entered Phelarion's atmosphere. Leia jumped to her feet, and with Luke and two guards in tow, she made her way toward the mine production building at a light jog, then a hard run as the ship touched down. It seemed to take the power riser forever to reach the roof.

The _Millennium Falcon's_ ramp lowered, and Morgana Tarkin came down it, looking much worse for wear of her latest ordeal. Leia stopped mid-breath. Morgana met her eyes, then looked away. "I'm alone," she said softly. "Come with me, dear. I have a message for you, from your husband. He saved my life, you know. He's all right, as far as I could tell. He's . . . he's gone after your missing son. Your boy is alive."

"Jacen!" Leia gasped.

"I begged General Solo not to go back. I shouldn't have told him I could fly the ship. He asked me if I could, quite abruptly, and I answered before I knew what he had in mind." 

"I'll go get in touch with Lando," Luke offered, leaving his sister with the Captain.

-- -- -- -- --

When General Lando Calrissian arrived on Phelarion, he met briefly with Morgana to learn from her what had transpired between the Vong and his buddy. "Where's the ship?" he asked when she'd finished relaying the story for the second time in as many days. She looked away for a moment. No. She'd had her day. She looked back at Calrissian, and smiled. "She's in the hangar at the security perimeter."

As Lando set out in search of Han, Luke and Typhani gathered a group of workers from the mine and instructed them to begin making preparations for the attempt at the crystal. Leia, in the interim, sent word to Ackbar that they were making ready for the attempt and that he should organize the placement of hundreds of signal amplification beacons and then come to Phelarion to retrieve the crystal, should the Tarkins be successful. With the Emperor and Empress occupied, and the Empress Apparent needed close at hand in case something should go wrong, Rivoche agreed to serve as her family's diplomatic liaison and meet the New Republic Fleet Commander at Port Tarkin. Adrian and Typhani retired to their suite to rest and prepare for the coming attempt at the crystal. Luke assured them he would come get them when the workers had completed the preparations.

Adrian thought back to his last moments aboard the Death Star as he considered that these may well be the final hours of his life. He and Typhani were on the settee in their sitting room off their bedroom, waiting, holding fast to one another. 

Typhani finally spoke, her voice shaking. "Adrian, we don't have to do this," she reminded him. 

He gazed into her eyes as they began to fill with tears. "Yes we do. You know we do."

"This is about Alderaan, isn't it?" she asked insistently.

He nodded slightly. "Yes. Alderaan . . . and Ghorman, Calamari, Omwat, Despayre--all of it. But it's also about Phelarion, and Eriadu, and Bastion, and our new nation, and our grandchildren . . . "

"But you might not survive this! I can't go on without you! I can't lose you again!" She cried openly now. Adrian took her face in his hands.

"Yes you can, Typhani. You did it before. You did it for twenty-five years. You're strong, and you can handle anything. That's why I fell in love with you."

She shook her head. "No. It was you. You were my strength! Knowing that you weren't really gone, and the hope that you might one day be brought back to me, that's the only thing that kept me going all those years!"

He drew her close and held her tightly. "I'll always be with you. We'll always be together," he reassured her, but it was little reassurance in the face of what was to come as someone knocked softly on the sitting room door.

Luke Skywalker stepped quietly into the room. "We just got word that the Vong are headed for Yavin and Yaga Minor. There's no time now. We have to proceed," he explained. Adrian and Typhani nodded to each other as they joined hands and rose from their settee to follow the Jedi Master out to the obelisk. Adrian turned back slightly to take in what might be one last glance at their suite, at the rooms where so much had transpired between them, and at last at the bed that he and his wife shared. On the way out to the plaza, he stopped at his study door one last time, just in case, and made sure the box of datacards containing his parting instructions for Typhani, Aerom, Valdemar, Daala, and Lyjéa remained in plain view next to his Imperial seal.

Outside, Luke had arranged for the grounds workers to move a large stone vessel from one of the gardens into the former burial chamber beneath the obelisk, and the moss harvesters had heaped it full with several dozen buckets of megonite. Luke stood behind the vessel, and indicated to the Emperor and Empress that they should stand directly beneath the apex of the obelisk. He addressed them as they took their positions.

"You must course your energies through each other, just as I showed you earlier. Most importantly, don't let go of each other. You must remain in contact for the energy to build sufficiently. Are you ready?"

Adrian addressed the Jedi decisively. "No matter what happens," he told him, drawing his wife close, "finish the crystal. Whatever you do, don't stop on my account." Then he turned back to Typhani, and their gazes met for what could possibly be the last time. 

"I love you," they both said as each locked into the other's embrace.

"Be strong, Typhani," Adrian told her.

"Don't leave me!" Typhani cried as she felt their mutual energies connect, something they'd felt many, many times over the decades, but never before understood its nature, its _power_. 

As they began to cycle their energies, a green light began to glow at the apex of the obelisk, and then spiral its way down the inner walls of the structure, following the metal beams that held the exterior black marble facing in place. Luke had deemed the obelisk the perfect draw for the energy, and as it gained strength and moved down toward him, he realized that he'd been right.

Adrian and Typhani began to move around just a bit to maintain their balance as the energy built and threatened to push them apart. At that, they mentally drew into each other, bonding their very souls as the green luminescent energy began to cascade over them.

Then Adrian went limp as he lost consciousness.

"No!" Typhani cried out as she sank to the floor with him, but she did not let go.


	20. The Megonite Crystal

**Chapter 20:**

**The Megonite Crystal**

Adrian pulled himself stiffly from the cold floor. A strange, thick, gray mist hung in the chamber's air. He turned to face Luke, but the Jedi seemed to be frozen, his gaze upturned and his arms outstretched. The makings of the megonite crystal glowed green before him, but nothing moved.

"In between space and time are you," came a small but gravelly voice from behind him. He whirled around, but first noticed his own form and that of his wife lying on the floor before he turned to the source of the words. "All is stillness in this place."

Adrian looked down then, to see the glowing, transparent, almost holographic image of a diminutive green alien with large, human-like eyes and long, pointed ears staring decisively up at him. "Recognize me, you do not?" the alien asked. Adrian stared back at him for a moment.

"Yes. From Coruscant--a very long time ago. The Jedi Temple . . . You were the Grand Master of the Council, no?"

The alien chuckled. "Quite right, you are, Your Excellency. Called Yoda, am I. You helped to destroy my order, all that I had worked nine hundred years to build. And then much, much more have you destroyed."

Adrian then began to realize what had happened to him, and where he was. "Yes," he admitted, looking away.

"And now you willingly sacrifice yourself, and give over your dream of ruling an Empire, to try to save other beings--both human and otherwise--throughout the galaxy?" the Jedi Grand Master asked sternly, slightly raising a spectral gimer stick at the Emperor.

Adrian shuddered a bit, but then gathered his wits about himself. "Yes," he answered firmly. "It's happened, hasn't it?"

"Not quite," Yoda answered. "Not so easy, it is. Not for you."

"No, I suppose not," the Emperor muttered, waiting for the Jedi alien to wreak eternal damnation upon him.

"Far from finished with your work are you, Wilhuff Tarkin. But first, you must gather strength you do not have. Reap from your destruction, you must."

"I don't understand . . . "

Yoda approached, and stared hard up at the Emperor. He raised his gimer stick again. "You must first seek absolution from those you have harmed. Only then will you have the strength and the knowledge to carry on."

Adrian took a step backwards. "But I . . . There are literally billions of beings that I . . . I-- I can't possibly . . . There's not enough time! Not in the entire universe! Not for what I've done!"

"You didn't listen!" Yoda accused roughly. "Time does not exist for you right now. And size matters not!"

Yoda stepped aside, and out of the mist came forward the image of a young girl. "You probably don't remember me," she began, addressing the Emperor openly and directly without any formal courtesies. "I'm Anakin's friend, Jabitha, from Zonama Sekot. Your first military defeat, remember? You had it coming." She then opened her small, clenched fist to reveal what appeared to be a miniature sky mine, which she promptly hurled at Adrian. He tried to move aside, but quickly found that he could not. The device struck him in the solar plexus, where it exploded and burned through his robes. "You killed my father!" Jabitha snarled as the Emperor winced in pain, grabbed at the spot, and doubled over. "And then you rained fire down on our world form your warships and forced us to flee. Not many of us survived. You abandoned me in the ruins. I stayed with my father's body, and soon joined him in this realm." She took a step backwards, then. "Do you know what it's like to be small and helpless as fire rains down on you from the sky?" 

As young Jabitha's image dissipated, Adrian found himself pelted by a barrage of fireballs that seemed to rain down from the apex of the obelisk. He crouched to the floor in a futile attempt to shield himself, only to be struck squarely in the back of the head.

His next sensation was the damp cold of the chamber floor. Adrian stirred, and stood up. Jabitha's image had been supplanted by that of a small Omwati boy. Adrian recognized him immediately as ten-year-old Pillik, recoiling inside at the memory of his viciousness toward the youngster and those like him. He stopped a few feet away. "Governor Tarkin, I represent the Omwati people you destroyed, and speak for the scourge you laid upon our world." He stepped a bit closer, stretching out his small, avian arms. "And this is what you did to me." Adrian recalled that he had ordered the boy electrocuted in front of his classmates after failing his examinations--after he had first kicked him mercilessly across the classroom floor. "See my bruises, and my burns? My people and my planet share my agony, and my sacrifice."

Ever since Luke had touched him, removing the influence of the Dark Side of the Force, Palpatine's lingering Sith poison, he had been feeling more and more. And now he nearly doubled over in shame and remorse for the atrocious outrages he had inflicted upon tiny, helpless beings not much different from his own grandsons. He stooped down, arms open to the boy. "Come here, little one. The Jedi is right. You have a strength far greater than my own."

"Yes," Pillik confirmed. "Before, you just took it from me and the others. Now, we give it freely. But first, you must understand." The Omwati reached forward then, to touch the Emperor at his solar plexus . . . 

A touch of fire, it seemed. It knocked Adrian backwards, and he rolled involuntarily toward the wall as if something was kicking him, blow after blow, and he cringed in agony as his entire being felt as if it were on fire, waves and waves of searing, agonizing fire, with intermittent blows, then more fire. Writing in utter agony, he blacked out again.

But then he awoke, almost immediately, and found his form, though spectral in nature, no worse for the incident. The impact on his soul was another matter. Young Pillik was gone. In his place stood a middle-aged Ghormani woman. 

"All we ever wanted from you in life, Governor, was a chance to be heard, and in death, the truth. I represent those slaughtered in your infamous Ghorman Massacre, which you and I know to be a farce. To use such an unfortunate accident to incite rebellion? Just so you could be the hero and put it down? To twist death in such a way--to turn sordid what could have been viewed and even forgiven as quite a chivalrous act--was certainly not your only act of utter cowardice, Tarkin, but indeed it ranks among your most heinous. Ghorman is a now marked world because of what you did--and did not do." Concluding, she approached him steadily, slowly, stretching out her arm, palm out, pressing him back. Adrian stumbled over his own robes, and, once on the ground, stared up at her, now inexplicably unable to move again, fixated on the form descending upon him. The nameless Ghormani woman held her hand above his chest, then slowly pressed down.

Unbearable, searing pressure tore into what he perceived to be his flesh, then he felt the sensation of his eardrums bursting and his ribcage being crushed as he again lost his senses.

When Adrian awoke again, he now realized what Yoda meant by seeking absolution. Yet the torment already bore too hard down upon him. He sat up and bent over with his head in his hands, quickly trying to recount in his mind--Zonama Sekot, Omwat, Ghorman . . . Atravia . . . Calamari . . . Despayre . . . Alderaan . . . The Jedi themselves-- He cried out in anguish.

"Goooooood. That's good. Not that you deserve such catharsis."

Adrian snapped his head up then to face the Atravian warrior standing before him, sword drawn. He'd ravaged the entire sector, he recalled, tauntingly, subjugating the resources planet by planet. He jerked back at the sensation of his right ear being sliced off. The swift Atravian proceeded to hack away at Adrian's specter--at his very soul, it seemed--taking out an eye with one stroke, part of an arm with another, until it seemed that the entire floor of the subterranean chamber ran red with his life's essence. In white terror at the sensation of it slipping away, he finally gave himself over to the blackness.

His next sensation came as a boot to the head, and he couldn't breathe. Seemingly suspended in liquid, he forced his eyes open to stare up at the young female Mon Cal who stood over him. Now he understood that it was his duty to endure the wrath of those he'd wronged. 

"I'm Jesmin Ackbar," she said. "From Coral City. And, uh, my people are not pets, particularly my uncle. See here, we're not water-breathers, either, like the Quarren. Do you know what happens when one of our cities sinks, Tarkin? Though you deserve this for eternity, for the sake of my uncle, my world, and the rest of the galaxy, I do hope you gain something from it."

Adrian had always read that drowning ranked as one of the worst possible ways to die, and he'd often used it as a means of execution. But to drown in boiling water . . . the boiling seas of Calamari, made hot with his own turbolaser fire.

He began to retreat further within himself, turning onto his side, drawing up into a fetal ball, and sheltering his head and face with his thin arms when he became aware again. Why couldn't they just let him--no. No, he didn't deserve to die in peace, he knew, to simply fade away as he'd tried to make his so-called enemies do. Something painful welled up inside him, into his chest, his throat, yet he remained unable to let out his grief and guilt.

Something unseen jerked him from the floor then, its stench unmistakable. The spectral Wookiee, his Despayre prison brand burned harshly into his hair and skin, howled a mournful yet triumphant war cry as he heaved the frail Emperor into the air, tore his muscles from the bones, and threw him hard into the far wall. Cries of pain futile at this point, he crumpled to the floor. Then he felt it--a hard blow of energy to his solar plexus that seemed to make both body and soul disintegrate.

Awareness most unwelcome, Adrian weakly pulled himself into a corner of the chamber, drawing up again, trying to bury himself in his robes, knowing that the worst was still yet to come. He heard a man in heavy boots pacing behind him. Bail Organa's voice from the beyond stabbed like hot acid into Adrian's ears, and he drew in his breath with an audibly fearful gasp. Of all the atrocities he had committed over the decades, the inability to die had never occurred to him as worse than anything his devious mind had been able to concoct. But of course, he knew, he deserved his own torments, and worse.

"I can't say I speak for my people or my world, but only for myself when I say that this is almost gratifying," Organa began. "Well, well, well . . . the mighty Grand Moff groveling at my feet. Justice at last! Sweet, sweet justice! Humility a bit worse than death, eh, Wilhuff?" 

Some of his essence coming back to him, Adrian felt a twinge of rage. Not Organa. He would not, could not take such torment from him.

"A pity Lady Tarkin had to waste away a presumed widow all those years, seemingly free, yet not. And a pity you must leave so soon, so soon after your timely reunion. Of course you knew that you might not survive the making of the crystal, or that you might not come through intact." Organa had been pacing, and he stopped suddenly, raising a finger into the air. "Let's see . . . What was your favorite tactic, Tarkin? Apply the threat to something other than the one involved, was it? You know, it seems to me that if this present endeavor could have a negative outcome for you, it could for Lady Tarkin as well." Organa then walked over to circle the spot where his own carnal form, as well as Typhani's, still lay motionless on the stone floor. He stooped beside the Empress, stroking the long tresses of her hair. "Such a magnificent woman! And yet so unfortunate that she ended up with the likes of you! What a waste! She could come out of this blind, like your daughter, or paralyzed, or brain-damaged, or just plain mad! I can't decide!" 

Adrian shuddered. "Leave her alone!" he called out after Organa as he tried to raise up. "She's done nothing to you. Take your grief out on me instead!"

Organa stood, turned on his boot heel, and glowered down at the Emperor. Then he grinned wide and let forth a belly laugh. "You're too _dead_ for an effective target! I'm afraid it's not going to be that easy. But unlike you, I'm reasonable." He bent low over Adrian. "Ask me to spare your wife, and I will."

"What?" The revolting position Organa held him in felt far worse than Pillik's fire or Jezmin's boiling water. Adrian felt as though his insides were turning to liquid.

"Come now, Willie, a little humility won't kill you. You're already dead, remember? Madame Megonite, on the other hand . . . " Organa turned toward Typhani again.

Adrian lurched toward him, but still unable to get up. "No! Please, don't hurt her!"

Organa looked back over his shoulder. "Are you begging me?"

Adrian felt as if he would be ill. Organa took another step toward Typhani, and withdrew a small bottle from his pocket. 

"Yes!" Adrian snapped in desperation.

Organa turned back to face him again. "Then say so."

Adrian recoiled into the corner.

Organa removed the top from what Adrian somehow knew to be a bottle of poison. "They told you about what Furgan did to Mothma, no? Well, this is a little improvement, from the realm of the beyond. It, uh, slowly crystallizes the brain, very slowly, in fact. Very, very slowly indeed! 'Could take years. And the pain, the dementia, the loss of body functions, seizures, vision loss, hair loss--it's all rather demeaning. Terrible disease!" He stooped down next to Typhani again.

"Don't do it! She's been through enough because of you and your daughter!" Adrian yelped from his corner. Then, as if retching, it came. "I'm begging you not to harm my wife."

Organa looked over his shoulder. "What? Did you say something to me? I didn't hear you!" he taunted.

Negating his very character, he repeated. "I said I am begging you not to harm my wife!"

Organa stood up. "That is a wonderful sound to my ears. Indeed, I have waited long and suffered much to hear such sincerity in your voice. There, you see, you can be humble. But I have an operation to continue here. Just a moment . . . "

"No!" Adrian shouted, heaving himself at Organa, landing at his feet.

"No, no, not to worry," Organa continued sarcastically as he replaced the cap and pocketed the bottle. "I'm a gentleman, even in death. I won't stoop to the level of the others, or yours--or hers. Dear Padmé would not have me deface my spirit and my memory in such a way," he concluded, referring to Typhani's attack on Padmé Amidala as the first Emperor's Hand. "However," the Alderaani Viceroy continued, "You have tasted only half of the horror that my people and I felt as we watched your technical abomination in our skies."

Adrian railed and thrashed about on the floor in the worst agony he had ever felt, as if he were at the core of a supernova, being torn into a trillion individual atoms . . . 

At last, the tempest inside him grew quiet.

He heard a familiar, rhythmic breathing sound behind him, and thought that at last it was over, that his long-time friend and ally had come for him, come too late, to escort him out of this place of self-sewn torment to whatever lay on the other side of his mortal life. It seemed to Adrian as if nothing remained to take. He could no longer see, move, or feel anything. Prepared to give himself over to oblivion, he spoke weakly to Vader as he sensed the hulking form leaning over him. "Just let me go, Darth. I'm too weak . . . There's nothing left. They've . . . They've all drained my life essence away. Typhani . . . She's in danger here. Take her back instead."

He could still hear, but did not quite recognize the voice. The sound of the respirator had ceased. "To hear you speak of nothingness! And now your fire will be snuffed out of the universe, just as you tried to snuff out the Jedi."

"Anakin . . . "

"To be nothing! For all your hubris and ambition, and all the terrors you wreaked on me, my fellow Knights, and so, so many others, that should be your fate. Nothingness. Not infamy. Not obscurity. Your essence should be erased from the very fabric of this universe, as if you never existed."

"The pain and shame of what I've done is too great. Let me go, then . . . " 

His spectral body and spirit wracked with unfathomable torment, Wilhuff Adrian Tarkin, the twenty-seventh of his namesake, the infamous Imperial Grand Moff who had laid waste to sentience and the galaxy with abandon, only to be Emperor of a shrunken remnant of his former realm for all too brief a time, felt himself begin to drift, to rise above the floor of his cold stone burial chamber, to dissipate, and to become one with the mist.

And yet one encounter remained. One confrontation left that ran deeper in the blood than all the others . . . 

Something seemed to gather him up, to bind back together the scattering and shattered remains of his being. No more, he thought. Surely this is the end. Yet he felt himself settle, something supporting him, warmth, comforting arms around him, a familiar presence that drew the pain away, and a kind voice not very much unlike his own. "All I ever wanted when we were young was to be like you. I thank my guiding stars that didn't happen, Adrian."

"Gideon . . . "

"Yes."

"I . . . never meant to--"

"Yes you did."

Adrian fell silent. His brother knew him too well. "I only wanted . . . "

"A legacy," Gideon completed his thought. "You wanted my daughter just so you could be sure to leave a legacy, so you could appear competitive among the taunts and jibes behind you back from other officers with growing families. You couldn't afford to look weak, ever, could you, even if it was your wife who had the problem. Everything a matter of power and pride with you, wasn't it, Adrian? Such that you'd destroy even your own to get it. My, what a black legacy you've left upon this galaxy, and upon the name of our house!"

"What--?"

"I didn't expect you to understand. Uncle Ranulph and I debated over which one of us should come as our family's representative. Father wouldn't think of seeing you."

Adrian had idolized Ranulph, adored him, and could not fathom why he should require absolution from his great uncle, or his own family, other than from his brother, of course. "But you were the only one, Gideon. I never harmed any of the others."

"That is where you are dreadfully wrong, Adrian. You've ruined us all. Uncle Ranulph. Mother and Father. Nolan, Shayla, Valdemar, Paige, Gaston, Weldan, Chantir, your grandsons, little Typhani Eriadu that your younger daughter carries in her womb--all of us! The Mottis, Paiges, and Lemelisks as well! Anyone linked to our name! Do you recall the little Omwati boy you met earlier in your present journey? You see, to Pillik's people, the word _tarkin_ is now part of their language. It means 'butcher-demon.' A fine legacy we have to thank you for indeed."

"I didn't know." Adrian muttered. Now his shame was complete. "I . . . should go now, Gideon."

"Yes. It seems you have quite a task before you, repairing one legacy while building another. You're quite all right now. You've gathered the knowledge you need. Humility, compassion, empathy, all may taste strange and new upon your spiritual pallet now, but they will serve you well in the future if you will allow them." Gideon then rose, and assisted his elder brother to his feet. "Of course, I'll see you again in a few decades. And I do trust that our next meeting will be under better circumstances. I challenge you to make it so."

"Gideon, wait--!" But his brother was gone. For a long moment, he stood in the chamber, frozen between space and time.

"Hello, Father!" came a small voice from behind him. Adrian spun around to face six spectral youngsters, four boys and two girls. At first, he just stared back at them, disbelieving. Then he sank back to the floor and gathered the children around him.

"You mother told me about you!" he exclaimed, taking each of them to him much as she had done. 

"We watched over you, on Vjun," one of the girls told him. "That was part of our purpose."

"Thank you, little one. All of you."

"Prince Organa and the others, they forgive you for what you've done, but now you have to go back and make everything right again." Adrian looked up to see all of those he had faced standing behind his children.

"It is for the sake of those like them that we send you back. My father and I, we ask that you claim your Sekotan heritage. My father knew your mother well before she left Zonama Sekot," Jabitha said, then took Pillik's hand.

"My people still fear you," he said, "and my world still bears some of the scars you left behind. Make it right." Pillik then looked up at the Ghormani woman, who took his other hand.

Standing behind Pillik, Gideon put his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Do whatever you must to change 'butcher-demon' to 'compassionate-leader.'"

"Tell the truth, Governor," the Ghormani woman added. "Many already suspect it anyway. That's all we ask of you now. The truth. Tell the galaxy that you weren't flying the ship that day, and disclose who was, yet was not supposed to be." The Atravian warrior next to her cast his arm about her shoulders.

"And tell the galaxy that the Atravis Sector Massacres were not our own fault. They were yours. Take responsibility for what you did," he challenged. He then glanced over at the Wookiee standing next to him, and placed his other hand on his gray, hairy shoulder. "Oh, and as for my friend here, on behalf of all the Wookiees you exploited, please acknowledge their rightful place as sentient beings in this galaxy."

"And my people as well. We do appreciate what you did for Calamari a few weeks ago, Your Excellency," Jesmin Ackbar added. "But you stole ten years of my uncle's life. You don't know this, but despite that, he still harbors a certain sense of fealty to you. He will gladly be your ally in your future endeavors. Make appropriate reparations to him."

Anakin Skywalker stepped from behind Jesmin. "My son appreciates the shelter of your laboratory for his students. On behalf of the Jedi, I ask only that you allow him to rebuild our Order in peace. We shall not impose upon your territory unless you ask for our assistance."

And then, the children parted to allow Bail Organa to step forward. "Put it back, Tarkin."

"What?" Adrian asked, rising. "But Viceroy, an entire planet, I don't see how?"

"You found a way to destroy. Now you must find a way to rebuild."

"You'll find the way, Father," one of the little girls said, smiling up at him. Adrian turned back to his children then. 

"Master Yoda says you have to go back now," the youngest boy said in an authoritative way that reminded Adrian of himself as a youngster.

"I know. I wish there was a way I could take you back with me," Adrian lamented. But surely that reward would surely be too sweet. The touch of his lost sons and daughters had been worth the journey's torments, for their loss had been the worst torture of all.

"We're always there anyway," one of the boys pointed out. 

"Yes, that's right. Of course you are." 

As the children faded into the distance, Yoda reappeared. "Have all you need, you do," HE informed the Emperor.

"No. A bit of guidance every now and then, perhaps? The Jedi always were so very perceptive."

Yoda looked thoughtful for a moment. "Your true powers are now awakened to you." With that, the legendary Jedi Grand Master turned to leave.

"One more thing," Adrian called after Yoda. 

Yoda merely looked back over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"This crystal--will it work?"

Yoda turned his back to the Emperor and started to walk away. "The galaxy lies in ruins. What you do about that is your destiny now. Your legacy, that will be. Work it will."

-- -- -- -- --

Rivoche ran hard toward the obelisk just as the energy was dissipating, but her legs would not carry her fast enough. She scrambled down the narrow stone stairway to find Luke stooping over her aunt and uncle as they lay crumpled on the floor, locked in each other's embrace. "Are they all right? Both of them?" she asked tensely, out of breath. 

Luke looked up at her then. "They will be," he assured her. "They just need to rest now. I've put them both into a recovery trance." Adrian lay very weak, but he had survived. 

Rivoche nodded, and then she noticed the gleaming megonite crystal, multifaceted, about a meter tall, its surface still crackling with energy, filling the large, stone vessel that had, just hours before, contained only mounds of gray-green moss. 

"They did it!" she observed excitedly. She walked carefully up to the crystal, holding her hands out on either side of it, marveling down in awe at the transparent pale green creation. "They really did it!" She could feel the subtle but powerful vibration emanating from the crystal. As she finally caught her breath, she made notice of the temperature in the chamber. "It's too cold," she told Luke. "We need to get them inside."

Just then Ackbar finally arrived at the obelisk, unaware of the events of the past few hours. Breaking their embrace was difficult, but Ackbar took Adrian, Luke took Typhani, and Rivoche led the way to their bedroom on the second floor of the main house. She pulled back the thick layers of faux-fur throws and down comforters as Ackbar and Luke lay the Emperor and Empress of New Impyria into their bed. They instinctively folded into each other as Rivoche pulled the covers snugly over them. She placed a caring hand on her uncle's shoulder as she turned to leave the room. 

They slept undisturbed well into the night. Typhani awoke first. Realizing that she was in her bed, and remembering that Adrian had collapsed, she groped madly for him in the dark, finally allowing herself to breathe when she located him. "Adrian! Are you all right?" 

He snapped awake, reached up, and took her head in his hands. "Did anyone hurt you?"

"No . . . Who?"

"Bail Organa! Stay down! Where is he!?"

"Bail Organa? Adrian, you must have been dreaming."

"He was there! While we were in the chamber! He had poison!"

"Adrian, no one was in the chamber with us except Luke."

"He must have called them somehow, brought them here, pulled them back from the other side somehow! I once read that Jedi could do those things! I knew this was a trap! Listen, Typhani! We've got to get you to Lumin, quickly! Organa--"

She cut him off, concerned. "I didn't black out until the end. There was no one else there."

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes."

Adrian calmed down a bit, and sat up on the edge of the bed as Typhani turned on her bedside lamp. "They were all there. The pain and the shame of it--all of them! They came back! They came back to destroy me, over and over again!"

Typhani moved beside him. "It sounds like you've just had a very bad nightmare. What happened? Tell me. If you get rid of it, perhaps you won't have it again."

He turned back to her, and recounted the events that had transpired somewhere between space and time as the megonite crystal took form. "What have I done, Typhani! What kind of monster am I?" he concluded, shaken.

"One of Palpatine's creation, if you're a monster at all, which I don't think you are," she whispered reassuringly. 

"No! Gideon's right! I've ruined our family's name and reputation forever! And Organa--he challenged me to replace Alderaan! An entire planet, and there was also Despayre. How can I? How can anyone _replace_ entire planets! And how can I continue to live with such a burden of culpability! It's all coming back! I--I can feel it all now!" His voice had started to crack a bit.

She kissed him gently. "Let the burden go," she whispered. "Convert it to energy instead. If you did experience these things in some way, then you've been allowed to come back for a very good reason."

He leaned against her, trembling, his breathing shallow and rapid. He was trying to hold it all back, she knew. She pulled one of their throws over him, around his shoulders, cradled his head into the folds of her robe, then locked her arms tightly around him. "Let it out, Adrian. The regrets and frustrations of your past will poison you if you don't. I know you think it's a manifestation of weakness, but it'll actually give you strength! If you only knew how many times I've given myself over to my anguish in this bed over the past forty years . . . " Then she allowed her own tears to come again. "You're always talking about my strength. Maybe it's because I'm not afraid to wash the pain out of my soul. It's all right. The door is locked, and it's the middle of the night. No one will ever know."

And then she folded over him, stroking and kissing the top of his head, her luxy, dark hair cascading around them both like a protective cloak, as the sleeve of her robe at last grew moist. "Just let it all go, let yourself grieve finally, for Ranulph, for your father, for Gideon, for Alderaan, for the void that Yavin put in our lives, and for all the other horrors that come from war. You must cleanse wounds before they can heal, you know," she whispered, rocking him gently as his first few choked gasps finally settled into quiet sobs, their tears at last blending as so much else they had shared.

-- -- -- -- --

Just after sunrise, Luke spoke to Ackbar as they walked down the central marble staircase into the main reception room. "Admiral, we'd be honored if you would personally take the crystal to the Core Systems orbital station."

Ackbar averted his gaze from Luke. "I'll not be going back with you," he said quietly, but decisively. 

Luke gaped in surprise at the Admiral. "You mean you are going to stay here with them?" he asked.

"For awhile, at least," Ackbar admitted. "Such is not treason. I am retired, and the war is over. We are at peace with these people now. It is time to be at peace with ourselves, and with all that our lives have been. You must help your sister find her family. I will stay here in her place until she returns, and assist with the preparations for the convening of the Galactic Council that the Emperor outlined previously. Perhaps at last all sentient beings in this galaxy can live in peace." Luke characteristically put his fingertips together and nodded in understanding as they proceeded to the estate's courtyard.

Outside, New Republic forces made ready to transport the megonite crystal to its destination. Crews were already in place throughout the galaxy hurriedly assembling the amplification beacons and bringing them on line. Most of the Tarkin household had gathered in the plaza as a New Republic honor guard prepared to load the crystal into a protective durasteel case for its safe transport. Luke walked up to them, and put out his hand to indicate for them to stop.

"No, we can't take the crystal away just yet," he said as he noticed that Adrian and Typhani had come out onto their balcony. He motioned for them to come down to the plaza as well. Adrian came down on his hoverscooter, still a bit too weak from the events of the previous day and night to stand or walk. The Emperor had an odd air about him, but no one could quite place it.

"It's quite a beautiful thing in the sunlight, no?" Adrian commented to Typhani as they inspected the crystal. "I can't believe we actually made this."

"I certainly hope it works, for the well being of us all," she said hopefully.

"I wanted you to see it one last time before we take it into the core of the galaxy, and I have something else important to tell you that I thought you'd like to know. The old Jedi teachings say that a latent diode is bound for eternity, essentially two parts of the same spirit," Luke explained.

Typhani and Adrian beamed, and, as is their habit, drew close to each other. "That's good!" Adrian said.

"We like it that way," Typhani added. Luke could tell that they were both still a bit addled from their ordeal.

"The teachings also say that the members of a diode can see their future in their work," he explained, and extended his hand toward the megonite crystal.

"You mean in the--?" Typhani asked, pointing to the crystal. 

Typhani helped Adrian off the scooter, and they faced each other and tentatively placed their hands on the crystal between them, initially afraid that it might burn or shock them. Then, they both leaned forward, and peered down into the flat top facet. 

"Come on now, you have to tell us what you see," Rivoche insisted.

"Definitely!" Lyjéa and Lyscithea added. Morgana craned her neck to look over her three nieces' shoulders. The boys crowded closely around their grandparents. Daala and Valdemar stood just behind Typhani, looking over her shoulder.

"Adrian, what is that?" Typhani asked.

"I'm not sure. It looks like some type of overland vessel. Perhaps a watership of some kind, but it seems to be in the water instead of floating above it," he described. As the image became clearer, Adrian and Typhani could indeed make out a large overland ship floating in water, a ship with a black hull, red at the waterline, and a gleaming white superstructure. Atop the superstructure stood four bronze metallic cylinders tilting back at a slight angle, with black tops. What appeared to be either smoke or steam emanated from three of the four cylinders.

"I sense exuberance, some sort of triumph," Adrian observed.

"I sense danger," Typhani warned. "And it's very cold. The water is freezing."

The image began to darken, as if day had turned to night. 

"Yes, something's wrong," Typhani observed. 

"Wrong with the ship," Adrian added.

The image in the top of the crystal morphed to reveal a middle-aged couple in very strange dark-colored clothing standing close to one another, holding one another, near a railing on what appeared to be the watership they had just been looking at. "The woman," Typhani said, "She's saying, No, I won't go, I won't leave my husband! I won't leave my husband!'" Then the image faded away altogether.

"What was that all about? More things going wrong with large ships? Not what I need," Adrian commented.

"I don't know," Typhani replied, shaking her head and extending her hands, palms up. "But I would certainly never leave you behind on one should I be there."

Adrian turned to Luke, "You say this is the future?"

"That is what the old Jedi teachings say. I have no knowledge of it myself," Luke clarified. He and the others then proceeded to load the crystal into its protective vault for transport to the waiting New Republic ship at Port Tarkin.

"A long time from now, in a galaxy far, far away . . . " Adrian mused as he and Typhani resumed their arm-in-arm embrace, their reunited family and friends looking on. He and his Empress looked lovingly and contentedly at each other, then cast their gazes into the expanse of space above.


End file.
